


Steady Squall

by anaphiel, pinesing



Series: If You're a Heretic, Then So Am I [2]
Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: Betrayal, Canon What Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Improper use of magic, M/M, Magical Violence, Major Character Injury, Melodrama, Misunderstandings, Monsters, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Sea Voyage, Sickfic, Sort Of, Sort of? - Freeform, Travel, Voyeurism, i mean it involves raistlin majere, raistlin and dalamar holing up in the tower at palanthas and thumbing their noses at the conclave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-06-08 17:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15247824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaphiel/pseuds/anaphiel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinesing/pseuds/pinesing
Summary: Raistlin and Dalamar travel to Daltigoth to recover an arcane artifact, and manage to recover something else along the way.A sequel to White Shadow Made of Mercury.





	1. THE INN

**Author's Note:**

> We're back with the sequel! This one's a lot longer- it'll be posted as it's edited, so probably relatively quickly, since it's all written already. I hope you enjoy!

The open road has changed. It’s so very different from the way Dalamar remembers that he finds himself taken aback, standing still for a second or two as the black-robed figure of his Shalafi draws ever away from him. The chill breeze isn’t different, and neither is the gray cast to the sky that highlights the new green of spring. The old Solamnic road outside Palanthas looks the same as it did when he entered the city months ago. The mountains are unchanged as ever, leaning tall and stern around the edge of the horizon. It can’t be the scenery, then, he thinks, and brings his wonderings closer to home. 

A twig cracks in the brush next to him. Blinking, he comes back to himself all at once, and his eyes catch on Raistlin Majere, who did not wait for him.  _ Ah _ , he thinks,  _ it’s this _ . There’s a big difference between exile and journeying. He has somewhere to return to now, someone to follow. Despite the duplicitous nature of his apprenticeship, Dalamar Nightson is no longer alone.

Shouldering both their (rather light) packs, he increases the length of his stride and catches up. Raistlin doesn’t look at Dalamar when he comes up beside him. While Raistlin Majere makes an art of rudeness, it’s clearly not intentional this time; he’s just lost deep in thought. There’s a determined set to his jaw, and he glares at the road before them like it’s the  _ road’s _ fault they’ve not already reached their destination.

Dalamar doesn’t comment, just follows him silently. The maps they have are stowed away, but with the amount Raistlin’s been studying them over the last several weeks, he’s sure that their contents are imprinted on the inside of his Shalafi’s eyelids at this point. He’s still honored to have been chosen to accompany Raistlin at all, and doesn’t plan to push his luck. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Raistlin glances at Dalamar. He can practically  _ feel _ the excited energy radiating off his apprentice, but he doesn’t comment, instead hoping to stretch the silence out for as long as he can. Dalamar, after years of exile and working with Raistlin, finds it quite easy to keep quiet, even with his excitement. He funnels it into his walking, letting his mind drift across the landscape as they go, walking always slightly behind and to the left of Raistlin. 

As it turns out, Raistlin is the first one to speak. Dalamar is always just at the periphery of his vision, never saying anything, and Raistlin thinks he would almost prefer  _ Tasslehoff Burrfoot’s  _ conversation to this. Almost. Raistlin glances back at Dalamar and scowls.

Dalamar looks at him impassively. “Yes?” 

Raistlin sneers, says “Nothing,” and turns his attention back to the road. 

“Do you need something?” Dalamar asks. 

“If I did, I would ask for it,” Raistlin says. He doesn't look back at Dalamar.

“Of course, Shalafi,” Dalamar says, swallowing his irritation. Raistlin seems to be in a mood. 

Raistlin views the edge in Dalamar's  tone as an improvement to the silence. He bites back a smirk, then tugs his hood further down, over his face, so Dalamar can’t see the expression.

Dalamar resumes his silence. 

“I was only wondering,” Raistlin begins, before the silence can go on for too long, “What was going through your mind.”

Dalamar blinks. “I was thinking about how different this is from the last time I was on the road.”

“Is it?” Raistlin asks mildly.

“Very,” Dalamar says, a small amount of happiness leaking into his voice. 

Raistlin thinks about the last time he journeyed anywhere by foot, realizes it was the night he first met Dalamar, and promptly stops thinking about it. That was several years ago, now, still probably one of the most pleasant evenings of Raistlin's life.

“Good different, or bad different?” Raistlin asks, even though he can hear the answer in Dalamar’s tone. He’s mostly asking to shut off his own thoughts, anyway.

“Oh, definitely good.” 

Raistlin just nods and lets silence fall between them again, for a moment. Then, he asks, “You put out all the lights before we left the tower, yes?”

“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar says, quirking an eyebrow. 

Raistlin nods. “Good.”

“And I fed the Live Ones.”

Raistlin’s expression tightens, almost imperceptibly, but he nods again.

“And I locked the door.”

Raistlin snorts. “Ah, good,” he says, “I’d be worried about a break-in the whole trip.”

“And now you don’t have to!” Dalamar chirps. The woods around them are putting him in a good mood. 

“What would I do without you,” Raistlin asks drily.

“The same things you do with me, except with far fewer annoyances, probably.”

“Fewer?” Raistlin asks.

Dalamar looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Or…. more?” he tries. 

Raistlin shrugs. “Without you,  _ I’d  _ be locking doors and feeding the Live Ones. Of course there would be more annoyances in my life without you.”

Dalamar goes a little pink. “Ah. Thank you.”

They lapse back into quiet. The woods start to turn coniferous, a blanket of pine needles softening their footsteps. They continue walking in silence like this for hours, the sun trekking slowly across the sky. It’s early afternoon when Raistlin proposes they take a break. Dalamar agrees, settling under a tree and withdrawing his spellbooks from his pack. 

Raistlin settles under the same tree and soon falls asleep, napping without meaning to, unused to long journeys after living so long in the tower. Dalamar doesn’t notice, absorbed in his magic. Finished with one spellbook, he reaches for the next, and his hand brushes another volume, one that contains no spells, no words of magic. He takes it out. 

 

—-

 

MONTHS EARLIER

 

Raistlin sits back and rubs his eyes. He’s not sure how long he’s been reading, but a glance at the candles he’d lit when he started tells him it’s been a  _ while _ . He stretches, several joints popping in protest, and flips through the pages of the dusty old tome to look ahead. 

There’s a knock at his study door. No one ever knocks on his study door-- Dalamar knows better than to interrupt, but he's the only one  _ here _ . “Come in,” Raistlin calls, his soft voice carrying effortlessly through the space.

Dalamar pushes the door open, looking flustered, dusty, and hesitant. He holds a thick volume in his arms. Raistlin makes just a half-hearted attempt to look annoyed at the interruption, as if Dalamar had actually interrupted something important.  _ “What?” _

“Shalafi,” Dalamar says, “I think you should see this.” He approaches the desk. 

Raistlin frowns at the book in Dalamar’s hands. It’s not one that he recognizes. “What is it?”

“I found this in the north tower,” Dalamar says, the shake in his voice now evident as excitement rather than anxiety. “Look.” He sets the book in front of Raistlin. 

Raistlin glances at Dalamar and begins flipping through the book. At first, he looks vaguely curious, but after a few pages, it shifts into boredom. Then, he stops, his eyes widening and his expression changing quickly to sharp interest, and finally, hunger. He looks up at Dalamar. “Did you read all of this?"

Dalamar nods, hoping that’s the correct answer. 

Raistlin continues skimming. “Is there a map? Some hint as to the artifact’s location?” he asks without looking up.

“It gave enough clues that I could pinpoint a searchable perimeter. I remember the area.” Dalamar says, drawing close.

Raistlin looks up at Dalamar, an eyebrow raised. “You’ve been?”

“Yes,” he says. “This is near the destroyed Tower of High Sorcery at Daltigoth. I’ve explored it.”

Raistlin stays silent for a while, staring at the book thoughtfully. He gets so lost in his thoughts that for a moment, he almost forgets Dalamar’s presence entirely. Then, he looks up at Dalamar. “How would you feel about taking a short...vacation? Of sorts,” he finishes with a quirk of his lips.

Dalamar blinks. “A vacation, Shalafi?”

“A trip,” Raistlin clarifies, “Out of the tower. You and I.”

“To Daltigoth?”

“To Daltigoth,” Raistlin says with a sharp grin.

“I would like nothing more,” Dalamar replies. 

Raistlin’s lips quirk at the unexpected response. “Good,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “It would be best if this journey was made by foot. Daltigoth isn’t too far, and based on the contents of this journal, there’s no telling what traps we might find waiting for us.”

“I can guide us,” Dalamar says, feeling excitement building in his chest. “I know the way.”

Raistlin nods, absently, clearly only half-paying attention to Dalamar, now. He’s flipping through the book again.

“When should I be ready to leave?” Dalamar asks, turning towards the door. 

Raistlin wakes a hand noncommittally. “We have research to do, first. We’ll need to research the artifact, the author, crosscheck the dates and the accounts of the journal with whatever records have been salvaged from Daltigoth. I’m not journeying all that way to discover this journal is a false account, or we’re several hundred years too late. And  I'd like to review maps of the area, even if you say you know it, and make preparations for our absence…” Raistlin trails off. As he goes on, it's clearer that he's talking more to himself than to Dalamar. “It will be a while,” he says, finally. His tone is dismissive. “I'll tell you when I know more.”

Dalamar nods and leaves, expecting Raistlin to summon him when he has need of him. When the door shuts behind him, his face breaks out into a grin, and stays that way all the way back to the library. 

 

\-----

 

NOW

 

Raistlin wakes quickly from what was a fitful, unsatisfying nap and scowls up at the sky, trying to figure out how long he was asleep. Long enough to be sore, but apparently not so long that Dalamar felt a need to wake him. He peers around the trunk of the tree to see what his apprentice is up to.

Dalamar’s leaning back against the tree, his gaze fixed on the pieces of sky visible between the leaves. He has a faraway look on his face, like he isn’t really here. Raistlin studies Dalamar’s profile for a long moment, then pushes himself to his feet and stretches, aches from all parts of his body clamoring for his immediate attention. He expected this. He’s never exactly been in top physical condition, but it's been a long time since he's journeyed anywhere or gotten any sort of exercise.

Dalamar’s gaze flicks to Raistlin, watching him stretch for a moment. He stands and begins to gather his things into his pack. 

“How long would you say we’ve been sitting?” Raistlin asks, carefully avoiding mention of his impromptu nap. It’s possible Dalamar hadn’t even noticed.

“An hour at most,” Dalamar says. “I didn’t want to wake you.” 

“You should have,” Raistlin says flatly, a hint of irritation bleeding into his voice. “We lost good daylight.”

“I apologize,” Dalamar says, retreating into himself again. “Shall we get going?”

Raistlin leans heavily on his staff and sighs. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes his tongue wasn't so naturally quick with its attitude. He stares up at the sky and quickly calculates how much sunlight they have left. “We should be able to make it into the mountains before dark, set up a temporary shelter there, for the night.”

Dalamar nods, then hesitates. “Shalafi,” he says. “Can I ask you something?” 

Raistlin fixes his strange eyes on Dalamar, the weight of their gaze heavy. “You can,” he says slowly, an implied  _ doesn’t mean I have to answer _ floating in the air between them.

“Why did you bring me along?” 

Raistlin smirks to himself. “You said you know the area,” he says. It’s true, the truest answer Raistlin can give at the moment. To be any more truthful, he’d have to confront thoughts and emotions that he's very carefully locked away.

“I do,” Dalamar says. “But I could easily have made you a map.” 

Raistlin shrugs. “You’re also my  _ apprentice, _ ” he says. “Consider it a learning experience.”

Dalamar looks at him. “I will, then,” he says, and drops the subject. 

Raistlin nods. “Well,” he says, then nods at the road. “Shall we?”

Dalamar nods back and falls into step behind him. 

The silence returns. The two exchange only the bare minimum of words for the rest of the day, trudging without stopping through woods and glens dappled with sunlight. It’s beautiful. It reminds Dalamar of Sylvanesti, even though the trees are the wrong shape, the grass the wrong color. Sometimes everything reminds him of Sylvanesti. Sometimes, these days, he doesn’t even think about his homeland for days. It’s progress, even if he’s not sure if progress is what he wants.

He finds himself, around the time the woods and glens give way to foothills and scrub brush, wishing that he had something to talk to Raistlin about. He’s lived in the Tower at Palanthas for a while now, and they’ve never had trouble making conversation, but there has also been enough of a professional relationship established between them that certain boundaries were never crossed, certain walls never broken down. On the road there are no experiments to discuss, and the tension is starting to drive Dalamar insane. 

He’s contemplating the best way to break it when they start to pass others on the road. They’re heading into the sunset, so the people approaching them are merely sunspot blobs until they’re close enough to blink away the light. There’s a farmer on a cart, his leftover produce in the back of his cart. He gives them a black look as he passes. 

Raistlin, for his part, is used to such stares. He's gotten them his whole life. He ignores the farmer, ignores every other insipid traveler apparently offended by the sight of two black robes minding their own business. He ignores Dalamar, too, or tries, feeling more and more like bringing him along was a mistake with each step he takes. They’re under an open sky, the road stretching on endlessly before them and endlessly behind, yet somehow, there’s more potential for _closeness_ than there ever was in the tower. So Raistlin uses his silence as a shield.

Soon enough, the sun begins to set in earnest, disappearing behind the mountains and casting the valley into shadow, and Raistlin begins to worry about shelter for the night. His worries are alleviated when he sees the lights of a town on the horizon. He slows his pace, now that the urgency of their travel has passed. He’s not quite winded, but he's getting there.

Dalamar pauses. “Do you want to find an inn?” he asks. 

“We may as well,” Raistlin says. “I doubt there will be another opportunity before the High Clerist’s Tower.”

Dalamar nods. The two enter the town. It’s late enough that barely anyone is out and about, but the few citizens who are quickly scurry out of their way, slamming doors and windows in their faces. Dalamar grimaces. “Friendly folk,” he comments. 

“At least they’re staying out of our way,” Raistlin replies.

“I suppose they know who we are,” Dalamar says.

Raistlin smiles at the thought, then shrugs. “Or at least enough about our order to be rightly fearful.” 

Raistlin points with his staff at an old, worn building in the distance, set slightly apart from the others and nestled up against the side of a mountain. The sign above the door has a crude depiction of a tankard of some sort of liquid and the word  _ Inn _ . That’s it, no clarifying titles, just  _ Inn _ . Fitting, for a tired, bland town like this. “There,” Raistlin says.

Dalamar shrugs. “Lead on, then,” he says. He’s not sure he agrees with Raistlin. The slammed doors and stares were just a little too pointed. 

“There are some parts of the world,” Raistlin begins, “That treat all magic users like this, regardless of the color of their robes. You have to get used to it.”

Dalamar blinks. “I know,” he says, trying not to sound irritated. “I’ve been to several of them.” He’s tired, and he’s still not sure why he’s even  _ here _ , and it’s resulting in a lump of anxiety gnawing away at his stomach lining. 

“Then  _ act _ like it,” Raistlin says, fixing a stern look on Dalamar. “You show any weakness around people like this, even the slightest discomfort, any sign they’re getting to you, and they’ll try burning you at the stake,” Raistlin says with a bitter twist of a smile, almost as if he was speaking from personal experience. He continues toward the inn.

Seething and  _ refusing _ to let any sign of it show on his face, Dalamar falls into step behind him, kicking himself mentally for even commenting on the attitude. When they reach the inn, Raistlin opens the door and they’re hit by a familiar wave of noise-- voices, laughter, the clatter of dishes. Raistlin scrunches his nose up in distaste and holds the door for Dalamar, letting him face the clamour first.

Raising an eyebrow, Dalamar enters, then heads straight to the bar to ask for a room. The barkeep ignores him, even when he leans across the counter. He has to pound on the wooden bar to get his attention, and even then the barkeep scowls through the entire interaction. He also overcharges them, forcing Dalamar to book only one room in order to keep to their projected budget. 

Raistlin leaves Dalamar to the negotiations, immediately taking to shadows and surveying the room. “Simple” is the best word he can think of to describe this den and the people in it. Golden eyes experienced at reading crowds skimmed over the patrons, most of them probably locals. Raistlin spots only a few worn travelers’ cloaks and weary faces among the scant crowd. It's too close to winter to see much traffic, and that’s likely the only reason the barkeep is doing business with Dalamar at all. This place needs the money. 

It’s gotten noticeably quieter since Dalamar and Raistlin walked in, the same disapproving looks cast at them in here as they’d received outside. It’s been a while since Raistlin’s been out somewhere public like this, but he hasn’t forgotten this feeling, the strange sensation of simultaneously  _ knowing _ he’s better than everyone around him and being treated so convincingly contrarily that it’s easy to forget it. He wanders nearer to Dalamar; the sooner they can get to the relative privacy of their room, the better.

Dalamar passes him the key to the room after the barkeep turns away, his face stony and impassive. Raistlin takes the key, his hand brushing Dalamar’s as he does. 

“Let’s go,” Raistlin says, shooting a glare at the Inn’s common room and wrapping a hand around Dalamar’s upper arm, gently pulling him along.

Dalamar doesn’t protest. He isn’t hungry, and the brush of Raistlin’s fingers along his sent an electric shock through even his crabby, anxious brain. He thinks about the last time they were in an inn together and then hurriedly suppresses the idea. 

The room they’ve been given is shabby and dingy, with only one rickety bed. Dalamar drops his pack in the corner and sits down with his back against the wall, yawning. Raistlin watches him a moment, amused, then turns to put up several wards around the room. He casts them quickly and efficiently, doesn’t bother with his stronger spells for a place like this. In the end, he’s barely used up even a fraction of his energy. He turns back to Dalamar.

“Are you going to fall asleep like that, then?” he asks, amused.

“The packs are comfortable enough,” Dalamar replies with a shrug. 

Raistlin bites back a smile. “Take my bedroll for the night,” he says, trying his best to sound dismissive, “It’ll give you a  _ little _ extra padding, at least.”

“Thanks,” says Dalamar. He has half a mind not to take it at all, but he does, unrolling it out on top of his own. He pulls his cloak and robes around him and lays down, facing away from Raistlin. 

Raistlin raises an eyebrow. “Good night,” he says dryly, before climbing into the bed, which creaks with protest.

Dalamar lays awake, the hard buckles on the pack pressing into his side. He barely feels them. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the events of  _ last _ time the two of them were in a place like this, a narrow room with a narrow bed. He sees Raistlin’s eyes glint with pleasure and Raistlin’s hair falling over his face, hears the echo of Raistlin’s moans and Raistlin, Raistlin, Raistlin. 

He’s going to lose his mind. 

Raistlin’s thoughts take a similar vein. He shuts his eyes tight, hoping to shut out the memories as well, and rolls onto his side to face the wall, his back to Dalamar. Sleep takes him quickly enough, but his dreams are filled with soft recollections.


	2. THE HIGH CLERIST'S TOWER

Dalamar barely sleeps, tormented as he is by thoughts and memories. He wakes, if possible, in a worse mood than he went to bed in, and with a throbbing headache to boot. 

Raistlin is already up when Dalamar wakes; he's sitting against the headboard of the narrow bed, studying his spellbooks in the dawn light filtering in through the room’s only window. When he notices Dalamar begin to stir, he turns his attention away from his spellbooks to watch Dalamar wake, endeared and enchanted in turn.

Dalamar sits up, rubbing at his forehead. He feels sweaty and ill and desperately just wants to get on the road. He shoves the bedrolls into the pack, and realizes after he’s completely done that he hasn’t yet said a word to Raistlin. 

Guiltily, he turns to the bed. “Good morning, Shalafi,” he says, voice quiet. 

Raistlin inclines his head in a greeting and smiles. It's the barest upturn of his lips, but for him, it's a lot. “How'd you sleep?” he asks, a trace of dry amusement in his tone.

“Passably well,” Dalamar lies, but it comes out hoarse. He scowls. 

“Good, because we have a long day ahead of us,” Raistlin says, and slips his spellbooks back into his pack. Dalamar slings both packs up onto his back and stands, finding several aching muscles as he does.

“If we’re lucky,” Raistlin continues easily, ignoring Dalamar's struggles, “Most of the town will be asleep. It's still early enough.”

“Mm,” Dalamar agrees, suppressing his own desire to go back to sleep, preferably somewhere far from Raistlin. The morning sun catches on his Shalafi’s cheekbones as he talks, and Dalamar kicks himself for noticing, for being affected by it, and then again for good measure. Today is going to be torture. 

They pack their things, which doesn't take long, and slip downstairs. The common room is empty except for the night clerk; Raistlin deals with him, because Dalamar clearly isn't in much of a mood to deal with anyone. The clerk's hands shake when he takes the keys, and he frantically avoids Raistlin's strange eyes. When they turn to leave, finally, the clerk makes some sort of protective gesture at their backs, and Raistlin snorts.

Dalamar scowls and ignores him, walking in front of Raistlin out into the dawn. He takes a deep breath of the fresh morning air and lets it wash away some of his irritation. He feels better to be outside. Plus, Raistlin seems more likely to talk to him today- didn’t he want that? 

He remembers, suddenly, Raistlin’s breath hot on his ear and flushes, all of the aches and irritation rushing back. 

It's a while before Raistlin joins him, Raistlin having gone back to ask for one more thing. When he finally comes outside, he shoves an apple into Dalamar's hand and then brushes past him, explaining only with, “Breakfast. I'd like to make it as far as possible before we have to stop for lunch.”

Dalamar frowns at it, but takes it and follows. 

They make it out of the small town without much trouble, seeing only a few people along the way, and then it's back on the road. The view may be beautiful, in many ways -- the sharp cut of the mountains, outlined against the colors of the dawn sky, the crisp morning air, the brush around them, coated with dew-- if it  _ is _ beautiful, Raistlin doesn't notice much. The novelty of traveling had worn off, and he cares only about the destination.

Eventually, the High Clerist’s Tower appears in the distance, situated high in the pass above them. Dalamar glares at it wearily. They’ve been walking long enough that others have started appearing on the road, as this is the only way through the mountains. He draws his hood up as the sun starts to beat down on him and passes through the gates, doing his best to ignore the thickening crowds. 

The crowds, however, do not ignore him. The two mages stick out like a sore thumb, their black robes an obvious hole in the colorful throng. More than one person ducks out of their way, or glares at them balefully. None of it bothers Dalamar until an older farmhand, a human of around fifty years, decides to spit at their feet. 

In that moment, all of Dalamar’s frustrations seem to be represented in that gob of spit. He feels his something inside him snap, and whirls on the man who just brushed past him. Reaching out, he snags him by the collar and lifts him up until he has to look down to see Dalamar’s face. His hood has fallen back, his Sylvanesti heritage on full display. “Would you like to take that back,” he says, his voice low, “or shall I stuff it back into your mouth myself?” 

The man’s eyes go wide, and he doesn’t respond, possibly because Dalamar is choking off his air. Dalamar shakes him. “Answer me,” he hisses. 

The farmhand’s companion approaches, haltingly apologizing and begging to be left alone. Dalamar ignores him. With a disgusted twist of the lip, he drops the farmhand in the dust and walks away, pulling his hood back up around his face and scowling. 

Raistlin watches the whole interaction with raised eyebrows, but can’t help the pleased smile that finds its way onto his face. When Dalamar drops the farmhand and storms off, Raistlin smirks at  the fearful look the farmhand’s companion gives him and turns to follow in the-- now  _ very _ obvious, as people scramble to get out of his way-- path Dalamar is forging through the crowd. 

“ _ That, _ ” he points out when he catches up to Dalamar, “Was entirely unnecessary.”

Dalamar snorts and gives an aborted half-shrug. 

“Unnecessary, but well-deserved,” Raistlin continues, glancing over his shoulder at where the farmhand’s companion is now helping his friend to his feet.

“Ah, well, I’m glad you approve,” Dalamar says with a trace of sarcasm. 

“Ah. And here I’d hoped that little outburst would improve your mood,” Raistlin says, tone long-suffering with traces of amusement. 

“My  _ apologies _ , Shalafi,” Dalamar snaps. 

“I’d accept your apologies if it sounded like you meant them,” Raistlin says evenly, unaffected by Dalamar’s tone. There’s even something like  _ teasing _ in his voice.

“Oh, do you want me to grovel?” Dalamar shoots back, spurred on without meaning to be by the teasing. 

“Is something bothering you?” Raistlin asks, the question surprising him as soon as it's out of his mouth. He doesn't  _ sound  _ teasing, not as much as he should; not even  _ he  _ can tell if the question is genuine or not.

Dalamar blinks, taken aback. “No,” he says, expression guarded. “I’m just frustrated.” He can’t very well tell Raistlin that he was awake all night vividly remembering having sex with him. 

“Frustrated with what?” Raistlin asks. “Me? This journey? Lack of sleep? Or is it really just with foolish farmhands who don’t understand the concept of self-preservation?”

Sighing, Dalamar shakes his head. “No. With myself.” He pauses. “And lack of sleep.”

“Alright,” Raistlin says, clearly not believing him. “If you’re sure.”

Dalamar doesn’t reply, but he does walk abreast of Raistlin now instead of following him. They pass through the remainder of the Tower and onto the road that leads down, down the mountains and to the northern sea. The sea plains spread wide and green below them, dotted here and there with small villages and copses of trees. Northern Solamnia is truly a beautiful place, Dalamar finds himself thinking. From the height of the pass he can almost see to the sea itself, and he feels his spirits start to lift. In fact, the further down the mountain they go, the happier he becomes. There are very few travelers on this side of the mountains. The road split several miles behind them, and all they’ve seen since is the occasional goat herder in the distance. The solitude soothes Dalamar’s soul, and soon he starts pointing out towns and landmarks to Raistlin. 

“There’s a shop in that town run by the most incompetent charlatan I’ve ever met,” he’s saying, gesturing below them towards a small cluster of buildings that look like toys from this height. “He almost ran me out of town. He claims to be a tested wizard, wears fake robes. If he took the Test, my mother was a gully dwarf.”

“We should stop there, on our way back,” Raistlin says off-handedly. He glances at Dalamar, and there’s a wicked curve to his smirk. “I’d like to see his face when two  _ real _ black robes show up at his door.”

Dalamar laughs. “He’d have a heart attack, I’m sure. Ah,” he says, pointing at a lone tavern. “ _ They _ import Sylvanesti wine.”

“Then we’ll definitely stop  _ there _ on our way back,” Raistlin says, then bites his tongue, remembering what happened the last time he had  _ Sylvanesti wine. _

Dalamar goes a little pink, thoughts clearly heading in the same direction. “It’s worth the stop,” he says. “Ah, but, where are we headed for tonight?”

Raistlin glares up at the sky, which has been a murky, gloomy gray for most of the day, now, and calculates the risks. “We’ll just get as far as we can,” he says, “Stop when we feel like and set up a camp for the night.”

Dalamar nods, also glancing at the sky. The mountain paths start to level out, turning slowly into foothills studded with rocks and spiky grasses. There’s less forest on this side of the mountains. 

They walk for the rest of the afternoon into evening, occasionally stopping briefly to rest or eat, always,  _ always _ keeping an eye on the clouds above them, which seem to be getting darker and angrier the closer they get to the coast.

When they’re about halfway across the plains, they stop. Dalamar pulls out their bedrolls and a hunk of travelling bread each and settles down, watching the storm brew above him. Raistlin pulls out his spellbooks and reads, balancing bread in one hand and book in the other. When the light from the sky is no longer enough to read by, he adds his staff to the mix, balancing it against his shoulder, and continues reading.

Dalamar falls asleep before Raistlin turns out his light, curled up on his side with his face turned towards Raistlin. Raistlin continues to watch Dalamar sleep even long after he put his spellbooks away. This entire trip, Dalamar's been alight with tension, frustration, anxiety. Like this, though, he looks peaceful.

Dalamar is still remarkably young, for an elf; Raistlin’s reminded of that fact every time he looks at Dalamar, expecting to see the same decay he sees in others. Especially traveling like this, surrounded by dying travelers and tired strangers, he's surprised not to see it. Surprised and relieved. Dalamar is a reprieve from the curse, and it tests the farthest bounds of Raistlin's control not to reach out and touch him.

_ “Dulak,” _ Raistlin snaps into the night air, the light of his staff going out before the temptation can take hold. Raistlin settles down to sleep, and for the second night in a row, he drifts off listening to the gentle cadence of Dalamar’s breathing.

 

—-

 

A drop of rain wakes Dalamar with a start. It’s still dark, pitch black, and he can hear a patter of rain starting up on the grass and ground around them. It’s gentle, but it’s cold. Dalamar reaches for his cloak, pulling it up to cover his hair. The rain on the hood grows loud enough to drown out the sound of Raistlin’s shallow breathing. Dalamar almost hits himself in his frustration, calling up a light and peering at his Shalafi. He’s still asleep, cold rain running down his face in rivulets. Dalamar adjusts until he’s close enough to drape the edge of his cloak over Raistlin, creating a sort of tent with his body. It’s awkward, but there’s no real shelter around and he’s not sure what else to do. 

While the rain isn’t enough to wake Raistlin, the sudden proximity of another person  _ is. _ He half-sits up in a flash, seven deadly spells springing to the tip of his tongue, the words dying on his lips before they can be spoken when a flash of lightning strikes and illuminates Dalamar’s face. Dalamar, who is  _ very _ close now, given the way Raistlin tried to sit up, and dripping wet. Raistlin blinks, taking a moment to process the sudden onslaught of  _ unexpected things _ \-- Dalamar, the rain, the  _ cold. _

“ _ Dalamar _ ,” Raistlin snarls, having to raise his voice above a whisper to be heard over the rain, “I could have  _ killed  _ you.”

“Ah, but you didn’t,” Dalamar says, unperturbed. His teeth are chattering.

Raistlin gives him a look and pushes Dalamar’s arm away, re-exposing him to the full force of the rain. He begins shifting through his bag.

“Shalafi, you’re going to catch cold like that,” Dalamar sighs. 

Raistlin ignores him and ignores the sharp bite of cold rain, instead pulling out a small jar of sand. Raistlin continues to ignore Dalamar as his eyes take on a faraway look, his concentration carrying him so deep he doesn’t even feel the cold of the rain anymore. Words of magic roll off his tongue and he tosses a pinch of sand into the air, and suddenly, the rain stops. No, it doesn’t  _ stop _ \-- it’s still falling all around them, it’s still falling  _ above _ them, but it’s like there’s an invisible bubble above and around them, now, and rain just seems to  _ roll off it.  _

Dalamar peers up at it, his mouth hanging slightly open. It’s breathtaking, less in the scope of the magic and more in the effect it has. He looks at Raistlin and grins. Raistlin grins back, and then he sneezes.

Dalamar’s face changes so fast it’s almost comical. He leans over and wraps his cloak around Raistlin, then conjures witchfire and lets it hang in the air between them. Raistlin tries to brush off Dalamar’s attentions. “I’m alright,” he says, the intense shiver that ripples through him contradicting the lie.

“I will not let you get sick on the road,” Dalamar insists, rooting through the packs for Raistlin’s tea. 

“If only sheer force of will were enough to keep someone from getting ill,” Rastlin says dryly, watching Dalamar.

“Force of will and  _ common sense _ ,” Dalamar snaps. “You need to get out of your wet robes.” He tosses Raistlin a blanket. 

Raistlin narrows his eyes at Dalamar.

“Do you  _ want _ to get sick?” Dalamar asks, exasperated. He brushes his wet hair out of his face with an angry flourish. 

Raistlin narrows his eyes further, and then begins to strip out of his robes.

Dalamar doesn’t let himself get awkward about it. He scrubs the blanket over Raistlin’s hair in an attempt to dry it and then wraps it around him, pushing his sodden robes near the witchfire to dry. Grabbing his own bedroll and stripping the blanket, he starts to peel himself out of his own robes. It’s less likely that he will get sick, but he doesn’t want to take the risk. 

Raistlin tries to stay as dignified as he can while Dalamar fusses over him, a feat made somewhat more difficult by the fact that he’s started shivering uncontrollably, both from the leftover chill of the rain and the energy the spell sapped out of him. He retreats into the blanket, which is  _ also _ damp, and grits his teeth to stop their chattering. Dalamar frowns at him from within the confines of his own blanket, then sighs. 

“Shalafi.” 

“Hm,” Raistlin says. His eyes are closed and he’s still shivering.

Dalamar moves closer to him, then feels his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s cold and clammy. He sighs again. “Come here,” he says, and waits.

Raistlin eyes snap open. He studies Dalamar suspiciously. “How do you mean?”

Dalamar frowns and opens his arms slightly. His facial expression is not particularly inviting, but his meaning is obvious. “You’re freezing.” 

Raistlin briefly considers denying it. Then he sighs and rises onto his knees, working his way closer to Dalamar before hesitating, briefly debating choosing the cold instead. But Dalamar gathers him into his arms, gently, tucking Raistlin’s head under his chin and wrapping his blanket around the both of them. Raistlin shudders and sinks into Dalamar’s arms, relieved at how  _ warm _ he is. He turns his face into Dalamar’s neck and just  _ breathes _ until the shaking stops. 

Dalamar watches the rain, thinking of anything but Raistlin’s breath on his neck, worry gnawing at the inside of his gut. At this point, the question is not  _ whether _ Raistlin will catch cold, but  _ how badly _ . Dalamar has done his fair share of caring for Raistlin during his worst bouts of illness in the time that he’s been his apprentice, and those are far more frequent than either of them would like. It will be more difficult here, in the open, in the rain. He sighs into Raistlin’s hair. 

If Raistlin guesses at Dalamar’s thoughts, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he mumbles, “The spell will wear off in a few hours.”

“Could I learn it in that time?” Dalamar asks. 

“Yes,” Raistlin says without hesitation. “It’s fairly simple.”

“Then I’ll do that. You sleep.” 

Raistlin pulls away from Dalamar just enough to give him a doubtful look. “And what about you?”

“Me?” Dalamar asks, confused. 

“When will  _ you _ sleep, if you have to stay up learning a new spell?”

“After I cast it,” Dalamar says. 

Raistlin purses his lips, displeased with the answer. There is, of course, still the question of  _ after that. _ “Very well,” he says. 

“ _ I’m _ not the one getting sick,” Dalamar says pointedly. 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t need sleep,” Raistlin argues.

“And I will  _ get _ sleep,” Dalamar says peevishly. “After I make sure neither of us get rained on!” 

Raistlin stares at Dalamar. “Fine,” he huffs. He tries to tell himself he’s annoyed at Dalamar's tone, even while some other part of his mind insists that it  _ likes _ this side of his apprentice, a side he hasn’t seen very often. “But if you’re crabby tomorrow, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Dalamar blinks at the expression on Raistlin’s face. He looks altogether too pleased for the situation. Scowling, he pulls Raistlin back against his chest, wrapping his blanket around him again and holding him tight. “You won’t,” he says. 

“Good,” Raistlin hums, sinking back against Dalamar’s chest, wrapping an arm around him in an attempt to make the position a little more comfortable. Dalamar huffs and maneuvers Raistlin until he’s pretty much in Dalamar’s lap, Raistlin’s arm still around him and his legs tucked up around one of Dalamar’s thighs. The skin-on-skin contact is maddening, but transmits more heat. Dalamar pulls Raistlin’s spellbook towards him and glances at Raistlin, asking silent permission. 

Raistlin holds a hand out for the spellbook. Dalamar passes it to him, then leans his cheek on Raistlin’s damp head. Raistlin flips through the spellbook, stopping about a third of the way in. He passes it back to Dalamar. 

“Thanks,” Dalamar murmurs, looking over the spell. “Now go to sleep.” 

Raistlin hums against Dalamar’s chest, his fingers tracing an aimless pattern into Dalamar’s skin. “Try to read any of the other spells in that book,” he begins, his tone pleasant, if sleepy, “And you may lose your mind in the process.”

“I know,” Dalamar says, and presses a kiss to Raistlin’s hair. Raistlin’s already half asleep, his breathing evening out and his fingers slowing their tracing.

Dalamar sets to studying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know how sometimes your bro is sleeping and it just sort of starts raining and, you know, you don't really want to wake them up so you just awkwardly try to shield them from the rain and that really just makes it worse? not speaking from experience or anything. i'm so awkward around people who are sleeping- will not wake you up unless the house is on fire, or you gave me express prior permission to. 
> 
> one of the first slash fics i ever read was one where aragorn and boromir got stuck in a snowstorm and had to share warmth or something along those lines. i was way too young to know what slash was, so i was just sort of like, okay, and no-homo'd it in my tiny child head. seemed like a normal thing for bros to do! don't want your friends catching cold. but then i read more fanfiction.


	3. THE RAIN

It’s still raining the next morning. Raistlin wakes still curled up against Dalamar, who’s warm enough that Raistlin doesn’t let himself think much beyond that, for now. He forces himself up into a sitting position, though, and blinks sleepily at Dalamar. 

Dalamar smiles at him. “Good morning,” he says. There are dark bags under his eyes. Raistlin frowns at him, then up at the sky, then scoots away from Dalamar just enough that he can start shifting through his bag. Fortunately, the contents of it remain relatively dry, thanks to his quick casting of the spell the night before.

Dalamar yawns. “Do you feel any better?” he asks. 

Raistlin just hums and unrolls a large map.

Dalamar hums back and readjusts the blankets to better cover them both, leaning against Raistlin slightly as he does. Raistlin doesn’t comment, leaning slightly into Dalamar, as well. He points to a spot on the map. “There,” he says, “Is where we are, by my estimations. Which means there should be a town not far ahead.”

A clap of thunder sounds overhead just as he finishes speaking. 

Dalamar frowns. “Alright,” he says. “We should go quickly, though.” 

Raistlin glances up at the sky and nods. “It’s a shame this spell is stationary.”

Dalamar passes him his robes. “Yes,” he says, slipping into his own.

Raistlin puts his on as well. They’re still slightly damp. It's a bit miserable, especially paired with the cramps from the awkward sleeping position, and Raistlin briefly reconsiders his “no teleportation spells” rule. But then he remembers the recovery time, and decides against it. “Let’s go,” he says, shouldering his bag and stepping out from under the protective bubble of the spell.

The cold and the wet hits him instantly; it’s only a matter of seconds before he’s soaked through. Feeling very much like a drowned rat, he glances back at Dalamar to see if he’s following. He is, both their packs strapped to his back, the rain streaking down his skin and hair, soaking his robes. He looks much like how Raistlin feels. 

Raistlin turns and heads off toward the town. Dalamar follows. It’s about five minutes into the walk that Raistlin sneezes again. Ten minutes in, the cold of the rain has seeped into his bones and he’s sure he’ll never be warm again. Half an hour in, he begins to feel dizzy.

About an hour into the journey, the town finally appears on the horizon. It’s about ten minutes  _ after that _ that Raistlin collapses.

Dalamar watches Raistlin stumble and fall in a haze of freezing rain, rushing forwards to pull him out of the puddle of mud he landed in. “Shalafi!” he calls, desperate, turning Raistlin over and feeling his neck for a pulse. It’s there, but weak. Raistlin’s face is cold and clammy and his breathing is shallow. He doesn’t do more than flutter his eyelids when Dalamar calls to him. Scowling, Dalamar scoops him up, taking a moment to balance himself against the extra weight, and heads on towards the town. 

It only takes another twenty minutes or so of walking to reach an inn on the outskirts of the village, but to Dalamar, stumbling occasionally and checking every five minutes to make sure Raistlin is still breathing, it feels like hours. Raistlin’s robes hold water well and he gets heavier by the minute. Dalamar refuses to let himself think about how shallow his breath is, how cold his skin, how weak his pulse. He’ll be alright. Dalamar himself will make  _ sure _ of it.

He bursts in the door of the tavern in a blast of cold, wet wind and calls to the barkeep, begging for a room. He doesn’t care that his desperation shows in his voice, or that everyone in the main room of the inn goes silent at the sight of one black robed wizard- and a dark elf, no less- carrying another, terrified and sodden and cold. The barkeep doesn’t even overcharge him, just directs him to the only room he has available. He hovers over Dalamar’s shoulder as he stumbles up the stairs and fumbles the door open, and only leaves when Dalamar snaps at him to bring a brazier and hot water. When the door shuts, Dalamar releases his hold on Raistlin, lowering him onto the bed gently and carefully. He checks again to make sure the wizard is alive. Satisfied, he starts to strip him of his soaking wet robes, a small part of his mind wondering vaguely at the frequency of this. The barkeep brings the brazier of coals, a kettle, and a bowl of soup, and Dalamar thanks him before slamming the door in his face. He throws up protection spell after protection spell, then drags the bed with Raistlin on it closer to the warmth of the fire. 

Raistlin still feels wet and cold to Dalamar’s touch, so he rips up pieces of one of their blankets and douses them in water from the kettle, applying them to his forehead, neck, and chest. Then, he waits, his own exhaustion setting in as he watches Raistlin breathe. Against all of his intentions, he falls asleep, draped halfway across the foot of Raistlin’s bed. 

When Raistlin finallu wakes, it happens slowly. The first thing he becomes aware of is the  _ cold _ , the bone-chilling, permeating  _ cold _ , despite the blankets and wet rags on his forehead and heavy weight draped across his legs. The second is the pain, his entire body aching, protesting that he pushed it too far. The third thing, when he opens his eyes, is Dalamar, the heavy weight on his legs. Dalamar’s sleeping. Raistlin follows his example.

When he wakes again, not much later, it feels more permanent. He’s able to move past the first three realizations this time, onto a fourth: they’re in an inn, presumably in the town they’d been heading toward. Fifth, Raistlin has no memory of the last leg of the journey, so he must have lost consciousness. He sighs, stares up at the ceiling, and curses the gods once again for his frailty. 

He glances over and sees that his canteen has been put on the bedside table. He reaches for it, his arm screaming in protest, and the movement jostles Dalamar slightly. Dalamar jolts upright, somehow making the movement look graceful, and blinks blearily at Raistlin. Raistlin freezes in the act of reaching for the canteen and blinks back.

Dalamar sighs. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says, his relief evident in his voice. 

Raistlin scowls at him, opens his mouth to reply, and lapses into a coughing fit instead.

Dalamar is up and at his side instantly, taking the canteen from his hand and setting it back on the table. He rustles through Raistlin’s pack as the wizard coughs, and a few minutes later a steaming mug of bitter-smelling tea is pushed into his hands. 

Raistlin accepts it gratefully once the coughing has subsided. The tea soothes his throat and eases the cold, if just a little. Raistlin holds onto the mug, letting it warm his hands. Raistlin lets his eyes fall shut. “Thank you,” he says with a sigh.

“Of course,” Dalamar says. He reaches and readjusts the pillows on the bed so that Raistlin can lean back, then sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. There’s nowhere else to sit in the room. 

“Lay beside me,” Raistlin says, scooting over to the best of his ability, “I need your warmth, and you need sleep.”

Dalamar flushes, but does as he’s told, peeling himself out of his damp robes and slipping into the bed. 

“Closer,” Raistlin orders, voice weak. Then, a little more of his characteristic edge creeping into his voice, “Whatever this is, it’s not contagious.”

Dalamar snorts, but scoots closer, pressing his body up against Raistlin’s. He loops an arm over Raistlin’s waist and presses his face into Raistlin’s hair, sighing. Raistlin tugs the blanket further up and over them. The part of his mind that’s still rational tries to warn him about this, how dangerous this is. The wall Raistlin’s carefully constructed between himself and Dalamar is dangerously close to being blown down.

Raistlin ignores that part of his mind and presses closer to Dalamar.

Dalamar’s already asleep, the head from the brazier and the warmth of Raistlin’s skin knocking him out as effectively as a potion. Raistlin brushes a lock of Dalamar’s hair back from his face and sighs. Soon, he falls asleep as well.

 

\---

 

When Dalamar wakes, it’s early evening. He still feels tired, but he’s more comfortable than he’s been on the entire trip, his arms wrapped around warm skin that smells of dried rose petals and spices. He opens his eyes to white hair in his face and gold skin glinting with a feverish glow in the firelight. Blinking back sleep, he brushes a hand against Raistlin’s forehead. It’s hot to the touch, hotter than Raistlin usually is. Dalamar sits, extracting himself from the mage’s limbs that somehow got wound around and through his.

Raistlin grumbles a sleepy protest at the sudden loss of his source of warmth. “What are you doing,” he asks without opening his eyes. He feels odd, the world just this side of too fuzzy. It feels like being horribly, dizzyingly drunk.

“Just getting you water,” Dalamar replies, brushing his hand through Raistlin’s hair. He reaches across Raistlin for the canteen. Raistlin hums at the fingers in his hair and arches into it like a cat before whatever rationality he still has, buried under layers of fog and exhaustion, can object.

“I’m cold,” Raistlin manages.

“You have a fever,” Dalamar says, setting the canteen gently in Raistlin’s hands. “Let me get up and make you tea.”

Raistlin ignores the canteen and grabs Dalamar’s wrist instead, his grip almost painfully tight. “Not if it means you have to leave,” he says.

Dalamar’s eyes widen. “Shalafi,” he says, “I’ll come right back.”

“Hm,” Raistlin says, frowning, and he lets go of Dalamar’s wrist.

Dalamar slips out of the bed, grabbing the kettle and the packet of herbs from Raistlin’s pack. He stirs the herbs into one of the tavern’s stoneware mugs then passes it over to Raistlin, setting the rest of the packet somewhere easy to reach from the bed. 

Raistlin, who’d propped himself up on an elbow to watch Dalamar make the tea, sits the rest of the way up. Doing so brings on a pounding headache, and for a moment, Raistlin’s vision blurs. He shuts his eyes and waits for it to pass, then accepts the mug, once again letting the tea soothe and warm. It even eases his headache, a little.

Dalamar feels his forehead again, then gets up and soaks a rag in cold water. “Your fever’s only gone up,” he says. “Now that you aren’t dying of hypothermia, I don’t think the extra heat will help you.” He kicks the brazier away, and some of the coals crumble and go out. Returning to the bed, he places the rag on Raistlin’s forehead. 

Raistlin pouts at the loss of  _ more _ of his heat. He mumbles something about turning Dalamar into a fire elemental, watch him take away Raistlin’s heat  _ then _ .

Dalamar snickers, then sighs. “I suppose we can compromise,” he says. He puts the brazier out entirely, then climbs into bed next to Raistlin with a bowl of cold water that he sets within easy reach.

“You’re my  _ apprentice _ ,” Raistlin says, trying to sound severe, which is difficult considering the fact that he’s already re-latched on to Dalamar’s side. His tongue feels heavy, and the world has begun to spin. “You’re supposed to do what I want.”

“So long as what you want doesn’t obstruct my taking care of you,” Dalamar says, wiping Raistlin’s face. His skin burns where Raistlin touches it, and this time, it’s not from lust. Raistlin feels like a furnace, every inch of him on fire. “What is it you want?” Dalamar asks, quiet. 

Raistlin just laughs, so many possible answers springing to mind that he couldn’t choose just one.

Dalamar snorts and wipes the cold rag across Raistlin’s chest. 

“Right now,” Raistlin begins, fighting through the fog in his brain to find something intelligible to say, “I want not to be sick.”

“I’m doing my best,” Dalamar says, pushing Raistlin back down against the pillows with the cold rag back on his forehead.

Raistlin’s eyes widen at the forceful handling, but then he smirks up at Dalamar. “If you wanted a repeat of our first encounter, Dalamar, you could’ve just said so,” he says.

Dalamar chokes, his face going bright red. Suddenly aware of how there’s nothing but blankets between his skin and Raistlin’s, he edges away slightly, trying to regain his composure. “Shalafi,” he says, “I think you’re delirious.” 

Raistlin sits back up, the movement making him unexpectedly dizzy again. He braces himself with a hand on Dalamar’s chest. “Am I delirious to propose it?” he asks, voice slightly breathless, “Or delirious to think you might be interested?”

“No,” Dalamar says, “literally. Your fever is very high, and as much as I might want that, I am not going to do this while you’re this sick.” He places a hand over Raistlin’s and wraps his arm around the other man’s back, holding him up. 

“Hm. I’m going to remember that when I’m better,” Raistlin says, eyes feverishly bright and fixed fiercely on Dalamar.

“You do that,” Dalamar breathes, gently lowering Raistlin back to the bed, and Raistlin graciously decides to let him, settling back down. Dalamar sits beside him, alternately running a hand through his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead. Soon, Raistlin falls asleep once more. It’s a fitful sleep, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, his hands twitching, reaching for something, even in sleep. Occasionally, he murmurs something to himself, something unintelligible but fervent. Dalamar watches, keeping the cold rag on Raistlin’s forehead, worrying. 

The storm rages on outside, rain battering at the window panes in a strange, occult rhythm. Dalamar eats the soup, now cold, and contemplates going and asking for food for Raistlin. He shifts his weight in preparation to leave. Raistlin murmurs in his sleep again, louder than before. This time it’s intelligible; it could be a name. Rosamun.

Dalamar pauses and looks down at him. He doesn’t recognize the name. 

Raistlin sits bolt upright with a cry, his hand finding Dalamar’s arm and gripping so tightly it might bruise. His eyes find Dalamar’s but there’s no recognition in them.

Dalamar waits, his heart beating in his ears. “Shalafi?” he asks, quietly, staying as still as he can. 

“Where’s Caramon?” Raistlin asks, voice desperate. He looks around the room, clearly not recognizing anything in it. “Get Caramon. I need him.”

“Caramon?” Dalamar replies. Oh, no. He moves to soak the rag in cold water again without taking his eyes off of Raistlin. “Caramon isn’t here, Shalafi. It’s just me.”

Raistlin seems to crumble in on himself, his expression turning from frenzied desperation to...just afraid. “Where did Caramon go?” he asks.

Dalamar feels something inside him shift and break. He’s never seen Raistlin like this before. “He,” he starts, then pauses and wets his lips. “He just went to make your tea,” he says, voice soft and firm as he lays the rag back against Raistlin’s forehead. “He’ll be back soon. Sleep, now.”

Raistlin doesn’t look much placated by this. He doesn’t look like he heard at all, really. He’s listening to something else, something much further away. This stretches on for minutes, then Dalamar reaches for his canteen, winding an arm around Raistlin’s waist and pressing the bottle to his lips in an effort to get him to drink. 

Raistlin does drink, and once Dalamar has taken the canteen away again, his gaze lands heavily on Dalamar. Dalamar freezes, tense, and waits. 

“My tea,” Raistlin orders, sounding more like himself, past his hoarse voice. “It will help me sleep.”

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Dalamar nods. “Yes, Shalafi,” he murmurs, and slips out of bed to stoke the brazier back to life, setting the kettle over it to boil. 

Raistlin sits on the bed, listening. His eyes are shut. “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“Voices. Laughter.” Raistlin pauses, listens more closely. “Music.”

“Um,” says Dalamar, the fear returning. “No.”

Raistlin smiles bitterly. He still doesn’t open his eyes. “Thought not.”

Dalamar mixes Raistlin’s tea and brings the cup over to him. “Is there anything else?” he asks. “That I can get for you.”

Raistlin shakes his head and accepts the tea, his expression completely blank. Dalamar feels his forehead and frowns, then decides against going for soup. He brushes a lock of Raistlin’s sweat-slick hair behind his ear. 

Raistlin leans into the touch, a little, and shuts his eyes again. Several emotions pass over his face, most of them indescribable. There’s something like sorrow, regret, annoyance, and then it all settles into exhaustion.

“You should sleep,” Dalamar says, soft, his hand still on Raistlin’s cheek. 

“Only nightmares wait for me if I do,” Raistlin says.

“Then rest,” Dalamar says, “as much as you can.”

Raistlin manages another bitter smile. “Stay near me, and I will try.”

Dalamar gets back into the bed beside Raistlin and wraps an arm around him, resettling the blankets with his other hand. “I won’t leave,” he says. 

Raistlin settles against him, claiming, once again, Dalamar’s heat. He breathes in Dalamar’s scent, like fresh rain and pine and something else a little more intoxicating, and soon, he falls back asleep.

Dalamar watches him throughout the rest of the evening, occasionally wiping his forehead cool or dripping water into his mouth. As the night continues, Raistlin’s fever peaks, and he twitches and thrashes in the bed, mumbling to himself. It scares Dalamar, who can do no more than cool his burning skin and murmur soft, nonsensical words of comfort. Around the time Lunitari rises in the sky, Raistlin’s fever breaks, and Dalamar breathes easily for the first time since it started to rain. He curls up next to Raistlin on the bed and falls into a deep, exhausted sleep. 


	4. THE RAIN, PART TWO

Raistlin manages to sleep through the night. When he wakes, it’s to the sound of rain pattering against the window, the feel of a heavy arm draped across his back, and the sight of their cozy--if shabby-- inn room. Most of the previous day is a blur to Raistlin--he remembers waking the first time, the second time. He remembers Dalamar.

Raistlin frowns. He remembers many feverish dreams, some realer than others.  _ Many _ , unfortunately-- unfortunately for the distance he’s been trying to put between them-- involved Dalamar. There’s no way of telling which were real and which were dreams. 

Raistlin stretches experimentally. He’s sore everywhere, exhausted and achy from the illness, an illness that seems to have subsided for the time being. He no longer  _ feels _ feverish. He feels normal, at least, though tired and suffering a mild headache. He looks over his shoulder at Dalamar.

Dalamar is still asleep, his face slack and relaxed. He has his forehead pressed against Raistlin’s shoulder and one arm draped across Raistlin’s chest. The other is curled up underneath him. During the night, the blankets he’d pulled over them slipped down to his waist, leaving most of his torso bare. He’s warm, and he doesn’t stir when Raistlin does. 

Raistlin turns, carefully, so that he can face Dalamar. Once again struck by how peaceful Dalamar looks in sleep, Raistlin brings a hand up to just barely brush his fingers along Dalamar’s jaw. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Dalamar wakes up like this. Feign still being feverish, probably.

From there, Raistlin traces a thumb along Dalamar’s lower lip. Dalamar’s lips part slightly at Raistlin’s touch, and Raistlin yanks his hand back, startled. But still, Dalamar breathes evenly, and shows no sign of waking, so Raistlin continues.

Dalamar sighs in his sleep, and the arm that’s around Raistlin tightens. 

Raistlin freezes. He waits. When again, Dalamar doesn’t show signs of waking, Raistlin continues, getting a little bolder and running his fingers through Dalamar’s hair. It’s soft, even softer than he remembered. For the first time since Dalamar became his apprentice, Raistlin lets himself think about that night.

He remembers how easily entranced he was by Dalamar, how excited he was to glimpse the depths of his mind, to find someone who could keep up with him. Even then, he’d told himself it was purely academic, just excitement over finally finding someone on his level-- or, at least, someone who  _ could be _ , with some training. He’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep telling himself that, given the way this little adventure of theirs is stretching on.

Raistlin sighs and runs a finger along the pointed tip of Dalamar’s ear, then continues brushing Dalamar’s hair back from his face.

Maybe it’s the touch to his ear that does it, but Dalamar starts to stir, blinking sleepily at Raistlin without really waking up. Raistlin withdraws his hand slowly, so as not to startle Dalamar into waking further. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Raistlin says, stealing Dalamar’s earlier words, the last he remembers before everything got hazy. His voice is hoarse, as it always is when he’s recovering from illness. Kitiara once-- quite balefully-- said it’s because of all the screaming he does in his sleep.

“Mmmf,” Dalamar mumbles, and curls tighter around Raistlin. “Morning.” 

Raistlin huffs, at least  _ trying _ to seem offended by this, but he doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t remove his hand from Dalamar’s arm.

Dalamar yawns and blinks at Raistlin again. “‘r’you feeling better?” he asks, his voice still slurred with sleep. 

“It depends on your definition of  _ better _ ,” Raistlin says.

“Can you eat?” Dalamar asks, closing his eyes but seeming more awake all the same. 

Raistlin considers the question. “Maybe a little.”

“Mm,” says Dalamar. “I’ll go… get us food, then.” He sighs sleepily and starts to roll over. 

Raistlin raises an eyebrow at him. “Don’t fall asleep on the way there.”

“Shut up,” Dalamar grumbles, not awake enough for decorum. He sits up and stretches, his dark hair falling down his back, then reaches for his robes, left spread out by the brazier. 

Raistlin’s eyes widen. “Did you just tell me to  _ shut up? _ ”

All of a sudden, Dalamar is wide awake. Halfway into his robes, he turns and stares at Raistlin with wide, horrified eyes. “I am  _ so _ sorry,” he says. “Please forgive me, I wasn’t thinking!” 

Raistlin stares at Dalamar a moment longer, and then he laughs.

Dalamar flushes. He tries to finish putting on his robes and finds that he’s somehow managed to tangle them. Embarrassed, he struggles for a minute before they behave. 

_ “Go,” _ Raistlin says, kicking at Dalamar almost playfully.

Dalamar sighs, looking martyrlike and put-upon, and leaves. When he’s gone, Raistlin tries to sit up in bed, the effort making him slightly dizzy. He drains what water’s left in the canteen beside the bed, and that helps. Exhausted from doing just that much, he leans back against the headboard and shuts his eyes. 

Apparently, they won’t be leaving today.

Dalamar returns shortly with a bowl of stew and another of just broth. He sets them both near Raistlin and turns to look out the window. It’s raining again, or perhaps it never stopped. “Do you think you can manage stew?” he asks. 

Raistlin eyes the two bowls, then Dalamar. “No, I don’t.”

Dalamar nods to himself, as if this is what he had expected. He sets the stew aside and passes Raistlin the broth, then goes to stoke up the fire. Soon, the room is lit by the warm light of the brazier. 

In the end, Raistlin only makes it through a little of the bowl before passing it to Dalamar. Dalamar sets it aside, next to the untouched stew, then leaves to refill the kettle and Raistlin’s canteen. When he’s back, he sinks to the floor, leaning against the bed and pulling out his spellbook. 

Raistlin studies him for a minute. “You should eat something, too.” 

“Hm?” Dalamar replies. He’s still tired and is finding it hard to think. “Oh. I forgot.”

“I’m reminding you. Eat.”

Dalamar reaches for the stew and picks at it. Raistlin sighs and leans back against the headboard again, shutting his eyes and leaving Dalamar to eat or not eat at his discretion. There’s no sound from Dalamar for a long while. 

Raistlin eventually gets tired of laying around resting and sits up, the blanket slipping so that it just covers the lower half of his body. Ignoring the sudden headache that springs up from the movement, he looks down at Dalamar. “Are you working on anything new?” he asks. “Or just refreshing old spells?”

Dalamar’s asleep. 

“Ah,” Raistlin says out loud. He climbs out of bed, tentatively, his muscles screaming in protest, and retrieves his robes. Once he's got them back on, he shuts Dalamar’s spellbook and sets it aside, instead draping one of the blankets over him. 

He cracks open one of the windows despite the rain, an attempt to get clear the stale, sick air that hangs over the room, retrieves his own spellbooks, and returns to the bed.

When Dalamar wakes an hour or so later, it’s to the soft flutter of pages and a cool breeze from the window. He leans back to look up at Raistlin, feeling guilty for napping. 

“You should take the bed,” Raistlin says without looking up from his books, though he hasn't been much able to concentrate on the contents if them. “I've slept long enough.”

“You’re sick,” Dalamar replies. “I’m fine, I shouldn’t have slept more anyway. I’ll just study down here.”

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Raistlin asks, voice sharp.

Dalamar blinks at him, irritation briefly crossing his face. “I don’t know.” 

“And the night before that?” Raistlin asks.

Dalamar scowls. 

“Sleep, before I put a sleeping spell on you myself,” Raistlin orders. “We’re leaving tomorrow, rain or no, and I need you fully rested.”

Dalamar sighs and clambers back onto the bed, collapsing in a heap next to Raistlin. 

“Sleep for a while, at least,” Raistlin says, his voice gentle. He doesn’t intentionally lean into Dalamar, but this bed is so narrow they can’t completely avoid touching. “Then tonight, you can read as much as you’d like.”

“Hmm,” Dalamar replies, his eyes already closed.

Raistlin adjusts the blankets and tugs them up over Dalamar, settling back to read-- or, at least, to  _ try _ .

Dalamar drops into a deep sleep relatively quickly, and one of his hands winds into Raistlin’s robes and holds tight. After about ten minutes of trying to read to no avail, Raistlin lays beside Dalamar and sleeps as well.

The rest of the afternoon passes like this: the gentle patter of rain against the window, the crackles of coals in the brazier, and the soft breathing of the two in the bed mingle together in a comfortable harmony. The business of the tavern continues around them, above them, below them, but nothing passes the borders of the room save the slight breeze from the window, which ruffles the pages of dark spellbooks as it does the hair of the sleeping mages. Dalamar breathes easily; Raistlin’s breathing is shallow and laboured. They both sleep until evening. 

Raistlin wakes hungry. Famished, even. Somehow, Dalamar’s arm ended up wrapped around him  _ again _ , so he pushes it off and sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stifling a yawn. The room’s gone dark in the time they’ve been asleep, the only indication of the passing of time. “Dalamar,” Raistlin says into the darkness, checking to see if he’d woken his apprentice.

Dalamar  _ hmm _ s wordlessly and rolls over.

Raistlin frowns and shakes him a little. “I’m going to get food. Would you like anything?” he asks.

Dalamar props himself up on an elbow and yawns. “Are you going downstairs?”

“I need to get out of this room,” Raistlin says. “I was thinking about eating down in the Common Room.”

Pushing his hair out of his face, Dalamar nods. “I’ll come with you,” he says. 

“If you’d like,” Raistlin says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He’s not  _ irritated, _ not really, but he certainly could have used the time away from Dalamar. They’re too close in this room, on this trip, and Raistlin is worried about the effect it’s having.

“And I can sit on the other side of the room if you’d prefer,” Dalamar says,  _ his _ sudden irritation obvious. 

“Please, we were just sleeping next to each other. I think we can manage sitting at the same booth,” Raistlin sniffs.

“If you’re sure,” Dalamar replies, his voice cool and impassive once more. 

Raistlin begins climbing out of the bed, but then he stops, a strange memory from the previous day hitting him. He stares at Dalamar with dawning horror. “Did I…” he begins, then stops and frowns.

Dalamar raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Did I proposition you yesterday?”

Dalamar pauses, his cheeks tingeing pink. It’s an answer. 

“Ah,” Raistlin says, voice coming out a bit strangled. He nods to himself, and finishes climbing out of bed. “Let’s go.”

Dalamar follows him down the stairs. The common room of the inn is warm but mostly empty, the bad weather keeping people to their homes. The patrons who remain are those who, like Raistlin and Dalamar, have come from far away and have further still to go. The rain beats on the window panes as the two wizards find a booth, Dalamar stopping at the bar to order food. 

Raistlin, as is his way, chooses a shadowy corner, sinking back into it as a way to see without being seen. The familiarity of the place soothes his mind. How many inns just like this one has he stayed at, over the years? He closes his eyes and can imagine, for a moment, that things are still how they were a lifetime ago. They’re on some adventure. Caramon is at the bar with Sturm, Flint had to go rescue Tasslehoff from trouble, Kitiara and Tanis are off gods know where doing gods know what. Without meaning to, Raistlin sighs.

Dalamar watches him. He looks better, now, the feverish glow gone from his cheeks. They probably  _ can _ leave tomorrow, which is good. They have a long ways left to go. It’s still raining, though, and Dalamar wonders what the weather will be like at sea. Any more delay will probably drive Raistlin insane. He brings two bowls of stew and bread over to their booth and slides in.

Raistlin doesn’t say anything to Dalamar when he sits down, doesn’t actually acknowledge his presence at all. He slides the food closer to him, though, scowling down at it like it’s to blame for the rain, his illness, the delay, everything. 

Dalamar lets him sit in silence, digging into his food like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Raistlin only picks at his bread and barely touches the stew. When he’s done, he slides the plate over toward Dalamar, in case he wants it. Dalamar picks the meat out and pushes it back. 

Raistlin sighs and stirs the contents of the bowl absently. “How bad was I?” he asks.

“Hm?” asks Dalamar. “Your fever?” 

Raistlin looks up at Dalamar and nods.

“I was worried,” Dalamar admits. “I don’t think I’ve seen you quite that bad before.” 

Raistlin flashes a bitter smile. “I’m sure I’ve been worse.”

Dalamar shrugs. “Probably. Are you feeling alright now?” 

“Tired,” Raistlin admits, reluctant to let the conversation flow in this direction. The delirious proposition is bad enough; he needs to know what  _ else _ he may have let slip. “Sorry to worry you.”

“It’s fine,” Dalamar says. “I’m just glad you’re better.” He gives Raistlin a tired but genuine smile, just a twist of the lips, but one that goes all the way to his eyes. 

Raistlin doesn’t smile back; his gaze is intent on Dalamar. “Did I say anything interesting?”

Dalamar pauses. “Who’s Rosamun?” 

Raistlin blinks. “My mother,” he says, his voice soft.

“Oh,” says Dalamar. 

“She saw things,” Raistlin says, not dropping his gaze despite the vulnerable nature of the topic, “Visited places in dreams, spoke to strangers she’d never met. Sometimes you’d speak to her, but you could tell she was listening to someone else, someone far away. She could’ve been quite the Seer, had she not been mocked for her talent.”

_ Do you hear that? _ Dalamar thinks. Rosamun’s talent must have been passed to her son. “A shame,” Dalamar says. He knows the way that suppressed, wasted talent can burn and fester. 

“Indeed. That’s what killed her, in the end,” Raistlin says, voice level and unaffected. He shrugs. “That, and my father’s death.”

Dalamar watches Raistlin, considering. “Were you close?”

“I was closer to her than anyone else,” Raistlin says. “But she was too far away for much closeness.”

Dalamar nods. “I was… closest to my mother as well,” he offers. “But she and my father died when I was very young, so.” He shrugs, unsure if the admission was appropriate. 

Raistlin’s expression, which had been carefully stern, softens slightly.

“They left me their house,” Dalamar continues, “and nothing else, really. I never had any siblings, either, so it was just me for… well, it’s always been just me.” 

“I’ve wished to be alone many times in my life,” Raistlin says with a sigh, “But I still can’t imagine what that must be like.”

Dalamar considers, tapping his fingers on the table. “I can’t say that I’ve wished for company,” he says, “or at least, not often. I have wished to be seen, to be understood, to have someone to talk to, but I think that’s different.”

“That  _ is _ different,” Raistlin agrees. “ _ That, _ I understand.”

Dalamar smiles at Raistlin again, feeling warmth spreading out from underneath his ribcage. He’s become rather used to this feeling lately. It happens a lot when he talks to Raistlin, rare though that may have been before they left Palanthas. He wonders whether to tell him that sometimes he thinks he’s found what he wished for, but decides against it. “Having siblings doesn’t necessarily guarantee you invigorating conversation, does it?” 

Raistlin surprises himself by laughing. “If you even have to ask that, you clearly have not met  _ my brother, _ ” he says, sneering the last words.

“I haven’t,” Dalamar says mildly. 

“You could never meet a greater idiot in your life,” Raistlin says. He does drop his gaze to his long, nervous fingers tracing along the edge of the stew bowl. “I always said the gods cursed us to be split halves of a whole person. Caramon got the charm, the physical strength, and I got the mind.”

Dalamar blinks. “Do you still think that?”

Raistlin sneers, the expression clearly directed more at himself than Dalamar. “You saw me yesterday. Wouldn't  _ you _ ?”

“No,” Dalamar says, shrugging. “I wouldn’t.”

"No," Raistlin repeats, "I suppose you wouldn't. You wouldn't, unless you'd fallen ill every time you went out in the rain or cast a spell just at the edge of your abilities. Unless you'd been delirious with fever, unable to sleep because of the nightmares that taunt you but unable to  _ bear _ being awake because your body is  _ screaming _ in agony, begging for death.” Raistlin's eyes are cold, but he looks past Dalamar as he speaks, as if confronting old demons.

“Unless,” he continues, “You'd felt death's crushing grip around your throat since you first discovered the magic inside you, unless you'd felt it  _ flex _ every time you'd taken the slightest misstep.” Raistlin sneers now, his hand on the table slowly clenching into a fist. “Unless you'd had to live your entire life reliant on a twin who has the body you should have gotten, to let him take care of you, knowing this wouldn't be necessary if you could just  _ be stronger." _   
  
Dalamar’s eyes go wide, his entire body stilling. He finds himself at a loss for words. He’s never been a particularly sympathetic person, and this is something he’s never experienced. He doesn’t want to diminish the importance of Raistlin’s pain by clumsily, ignorantly commenting. He waits. 

Raistlin's eyes refocus on Dalamar, and his hand slowly uncurls to lay flat on the table. “Are you finished eating?” he asks.   
  
“Yes,” Dalamar says. He wants to do something, prove something to Raistlin, but he isn’t sure what. 

“I'm ready to go back upstairs,” Raistlin says. He stretches like a cat then stands, glancing at Dalamar to see if he's coming.

Dalamar’s eyes linger on Raistlin as he stretches, but he blinks it off quickly and stands to follow. 

Raistlin leads the way back upstairs, back into their room. The first thing he does is shut the window; while the rain has slowed to a drizzle, a cold wind picked up, leaving a chill in the room. Dalamar stokes the fire up and stretches, then retrieves his spellbook. 

Raistlin drops onto the bed, automatically leaving room for Dalamar, now, and almost instantly falls asleep.

Somewhat hesitant, Dalamar takes his place next to Raistlin and studies for a while, one hand absentmindedly combing through Raistlin’s hair. When the fire dies down to coals, he sets his book aside and joins Raistlin in slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tomorrow's the first day of my work week and it's probably going to be very busy, so unless em wants to take over posting for me i probably won't be getting one up for a couple of days. which is good, honestly, because that gives us time to catch up on the editing! 
> 
> i spent pretty much all of today drawing up a piece for a client who, after asking me to rehash the design like, three times, decided she didn't want the tattoo after all and canceled on me. this, therefore, is the only thing of actual worth i've done all day. please leave me some love, i am very frustrated.


	5. GANDER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter justifies the explicit rating, oh my.

Dalamar wakes up first, the first light of dawn visible in the window. He’s comfortable and feels, for the first time in a long while, well-rested. There’s a warm weight against his back. Sort of against his everywhere, he muses, blinking himself awake. When he realizes what it is, he freezes. 

Raistlin’s pressed up against him, curled around him, holding onto him. The Sylvanesti tend to be a shorter race, and Raistlin is several inches taller than him. This is evident in how Dalamar’s head is tucked comfortably under Raistlin’s chin, and both of Raistlin’s arms are wrapped around his torso, one long-fingered hand resting gently on his stomach. Dalamar can feel the line of Raistlin’s body all along his. He’s really glad Raistlin isn’t awake for this, as he’s probably gone bright red to the tips of his ears. 

After lying still for a few minutes and working through his shock, Dalamar comes to two conclusions. The first is that he  _ likes _ this. It feels natural, somehow safe. He tucks this thought away almost as soon as he thinks it with a vague feeling that he shouldn’t have gone there. The second conclusion is that Raistlin would probably be mortified to find them in this position, so Dalamar begins the process of gently extricating himself from the wizard’s grasp before he can wake up. 

Raistlin wakes, of course, at the first awkward shift of Dalamar’s weight. He's lived on the road, in danger, for too much of his life not to be a light sleeper. He hums and-- admittedly still  _ half _ asleep, perhaps--trails a hand along Dalamar's waist and buries his nose in Dalamar’s hair. 

Dalamar feels his entire body tense up, but he tries to play it off. “Good morning, Shalafi,” he says, quietly. 

Raistlin freezes up along with Dalamar, but he doesn't move, as if moving will bring with it the full realization of exactly what he's doing. “Good morning,” he breathes against Dalamar’s hair, carefully extracting his arms from around the elf.

Dalamar rolls over, finding Raistlin’s face  _ very  _ close to his own. “You wanted to leave early, yes?” he asks. Their foreheads and noses are almost touching, and he can feel Raistlin’s breath on his lips.

“I did, yes,” Raistlin says, the words barely voiced. He just got his hands back to himself, but he finds himself wanting to reach out and touch Dalamar again.

Dalamar sits up in one smooth movement, his hair swinging into his face as he looks down at Raistlin. “Then we should get going, shouldn’t we?” 

Raistlin breathes a sigh of relief at the sudden space. The loss of Dalamar’s warmth comes with a slight clearing of the fog around Raistlin's mind. He remembers why all of  _ that _ is a bad idea.

Though the dim light streaming into the room is cold, when Raistlin listens for rain, he doesn't hear it. He sits up, groggily, to peer out the window; the sky is certainly overcast, the clouds angry and low in the sky, but for now, it's  _ not _ raining.

“Yes, let's go.” 

The rest of the journey to Gander is uneventful, if a bit muddy. They make it by early evening. Dalamar is in high spirits, though he’s not entirely sure why. He and Raistlin spent the day discussing differences between two artifacts from the Age of Dreams, which led to Dalamar explaining his collection of forgotten objects that he picked up from ruins on his wanderings. It’s amicable and entertaining, and Dalamar finds himself enjoying Raistlin’s company- and what’s more, believing that Raistlin enjoys his. 

In Gander, however, that changes. There’s an ill wind blowing from the south, and none of the ships will leave for any sum of money, not tonight and not tomorrow either. There’s nothing for it but to find an inn and a way to while away the time. 

Raistlin gets visibly crabbier with each ship captain who tells them no, and for the second time this trip, he contemplates breaking his no teleportation spells rule. He's not sure he can take another night in a room alone with Dalamar, but when they find a promising place near the docks and head up to their room for the night, Raistlin's relieved to see  _ two _ beds. He drops his things onto the further of the beds, and then puts up their customary protection spells.

Dalamar flops back onto the other bed, sighing. “Do you want to eat here, Shalafi, or should we find somewhere else?”

Just as he asks the question, the gentle patter of rain picks up against the window, which overlooks the green-tinted water of the bay. It's no wonder that this place is more expensive than the other places they've stayed at combined. “If you'd like to go out in  _ that _ , be my guest,” Raistlin says, inclining his head toward the rainy window.

“Mmm,” says Dalamar. “No, I think I’ll pass.”

Raistlin smirks at Dalamar. “Downstairs it is, then.”

“I hope their food is better than the last tavern.”

“I don't recall you having any complaints at the time,” Raistlin says.

“Of course not,” Dalamar sniffs. “It was the only option. That doesn’t mean it was  _ good. _ ”

Raistlin just keeps smirking and slips past Dalamar, headed down to get the food. He leaves Dalamar to order, though, instead going to find them seats. He manages to find an open table near the fire, and sits with his back to it so he can survey the room. It's filled with a strange assortment of people, most of them-- from what Raistlin can hear-- complaining about the rain. He pulls his hood further down over his head and smirks. It's a small comfort to know they're not the only ones trapped here by the rain.

Dalamar makes his way over to Raistlin with two different plates, setting them both in front of the wizard. One is some type of roast, the other is a shepherd’s pie. “Which do you want?” Dalamar asks. His hood is down. Dark elves are more common in seaports than inland, so he hides his heritage less. 

“Whichever you don't,” Raistlin answers, barely glancing at the food. He  _ does _ briefly study Dalamar’s face in the firelight, how the golden glow highlights the delicate angles of his face.

Dalamar deliberates for a moment, then pushes the shepherd’s pie over to Raistlin. He digs into the roast, then sighs. “Ah, gods. This is so much better.” 

Raistlin watches Dalamar with raised eyebrows, slightly amused. “Glad you approve.”

“I do.” Dalamar looks around the room. “This place is charming.” He’s still in a good mood.

Raistlin shrugs. “Better than the other stops we’ve made so far,” he says. “Friendlier, too.”

It’s true. Barely anyone in the inn had even batted an eye at the two black robes, and Dalamar was willing to bet there was at least one other dark elf in the room. Not that that means it’s a place of ill repute, just that the area is more cultured, more accustomed to those of different beliefs and backgrounds passing through. Dalamar feels at ease here. He realizes that he’s had the same dopey smile on his face since they sat down, but he can’t seem to make it go away. 

Raistlin picks at his shepherd’s pie, fretting over his own good mood. This isn’t how the trip was supposed to go. This isn’t the  _ point _ of the trip, this...for lack of a better word,  _ bonding _ . The point was to get the artifact, and to get it quickly. Raistlin has hardly even  _ thought _ about their destination since he first got sick. He blames Dalamar for that, entirely. He looks up at the dark elf, thoughtful.

Dalamar raises an eyebrow at him. “Something on your mind?” 

Raistlin starts a little at being caught staring, then shakes his head. “Just thinking about how much time the delay will cost,” he lies.

Dalamar sighs, his smile melting into a scowl. “You’re right. I hope the storm clears up by tomorrow.” 

Raistlin looks out the window at the falling rain. “As do I,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sure.

“Are there any more preparations we need to make?” Dalamar asks. “I can go out tomorrow, even if it’s raining.”

“We should have enough supplies to at least last us until Pontigoth,” Raistlin says, studying Dalamar closely, wondering if Dalamar’s trying to be helpful or looking for an excuse to escape Raistlin’s watchful eye. “But the rain spells  _ did _ deplete my stock somewhat.”

Dalamar considers this. “Just sand, then?”

Raistlin smiles. “Just sand,” he says, “If you’re looking for an excuse to be helpful. But it’s not necessary, clearly.”

Dalamar snorts. “I’ll just scoop some up off the beach when we leave.”

“I’m so lucky to have such a  _ resourceful _ apprentice,” Raistlin says dryly, going back to picking at his food.

Laughing, Dalamar shakes his head. “That is what I’m here for.” 

“Funny, I thought you were here to learn from  _ me _ .”

“Ah, how the tables have turned,” Dalamar laughs. “I think you’ll find I have  _ much _ I could teach you.” 

Raistlin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do, do you?”

Dalamar shrugs. “I could find  _ something _ , I’m sure.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Raistlin challenges.

Dalamar’s eyebrows go up this time. “Really,” he says. 

“Of course,” Raistlin says, narrowing his eyes at Dalamar. “I’m always up for learning something new.”

Dalamar gives Raistlin a wicked grin. “I could teach you how to make a woman fall in love with you for one night and one night only, without her ever learning your name. How to get what you want with your body, not your words. I’ve never been the best at words, honestly, but I’ve found other ways.” 

Raistlin leans in across the table, his eyes intent on Dalamar. “If you’re going to teach me something,” he says, in a soft voice, “Teach me something I have a use for, Dalamar.”

Dalamar throws his head back and laughs. 

Raistlin sits back again, looking very pleased with himself. His gaze never leaves Dalamar. 

“You don’t have a use for the ways of seduction?” Dalamar asks, looking facetiously coy.

Raistlin spreads his hands out on the table and shrugs. “If someone’s going to be interested in me, then they’re going to be interested in me,” he says, smirking at Dalamar in such a way that makes it clear he knows Dalamar’s opinion on the matter.

Dalamar flushes, but smirks. 

Raistlin realizes something and scowls. “What makes you think I couldn’t seduce someone if I wanted to?” he asks.

Dalamar laughs again. “I’m sure you could, but how efficiently? I don’t mean any offense, but you seem the type to just… let it happen, rather than go looking for it.” 

Raistlin raises an eyebrow. “Don’t make assumptions about me, Dalamar Nightson.” His hand finds Dalamar’s on the table and he threads their fingers together, never breaking eye contact. “If there’s something I want, I go after it.”

Dalamar’s eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open slightly. “Do you, now,” he manages. 

Raistlin turns Dalamar’s hand over, and his thumb begins tracing along the inside of Dalamar’s wrist. “Does that surprise you?” he asks, head tilting to one side. “With all that you know about me?”

“No,” Dalamar replies, closing his fingers around Raistlin’s. “It doesn’t.” 

Raistlin pulls his hand back and smirks at Dalamar. “You see? You have nothing to teach me,” he says, looking very pleased with himself.

Dalamar scowls. “Oh, that’s not fair,” he says. “That wasn’t what I was talking about at  _ all _ .” 

Raistlin grins at him. “No?”

“It’s different when the person doesn’t  _ know _ you,” Dalamar insists. “Seducing someone who’s already attracted to you is cheating.” 

Raistlin shrugs, his grin widening. “You weren’t expecting it, though.”

Dalamar sighs. “No, I was not.” 

Raistlin sits up and mirrors his earlier position, fingers tangling with Dalamar’s again. “You weren’t opposed, either,” he says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

“No,” Dalamar breathes, his eyes fixed on Raistlin’s. “Never.”

“Good,” Raistlin says.

Wondering what they just put into motion, Dalamar pauses, looking at his fingers entwined with Raistlin’s. It feels fateful, somehow, that this would happen again. It feels like something they’ve been dancing around, slowly edging ever closer. He lifts Raistlin’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

Raistlin lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. “Should we…” Raistlin begins, studying Dalamar's face closely. “Go upstairs?”

Dalamar nods and stands up, grinning like an idiot. Raistlin gives him a tentative smile back, and, his hand still holding Dalamar's, drags him upstairs.

Dalamar shuts the door of their room behind them and leans against it, still smiling. 

Raistlin drops Dalamar’s hand and stands in front of him, keeping some distance. “I want to clarify something,” he says, suddenly serious. “It's something we touched on last time, too. This is a choice we’re making independent of my role as your teacher or yours as my apprentice. It's a choice that's entirely yours to make; it won't curry favor or in any way change my opinion of you as my apprentice.”

Dalamar nods. “I know,” he says. “I want this.” 

“Good,” Raistlin says again, finally letting himself reach up and card a hand through Dalamar’s hair. It’s impossibly soft. As Raistlin marvels over it, Dalamar steps closer to him, until their chests are almost touching. He runs a hand across Raistlin’s shoulder, down his arm. 

When Dalamar's hand trails low enough, Raistlin catches it and tangles their fingers together, smirking at his apprentice. Dalamar's hand is on the cold side, but it feels good against Raistlin's overheated skin. Raistlin cups Dalamar’s cheek and leans closer to him, stopping when their foreheads nearly touch and he can feel Dalamar's breath hot against his cheek. Some alarm sounds in his head, some fleeting thought insisting that this isn't good idea, but Raistlin ignores it. He closes the distance between them and kisses Dalamar.

It feels different than the last time Raistlin kissed him. Then, over a year ago, they were strangers meeting in an inn. Now, they’re closer, a team, as strange of a duo as they may be. Dalamar wonders if they might be friends. Raistlin is the person that Dalamar most respects, most admires. At this point, he might even say that Raistlin is who he most trusts, even with everything he knows and the secrets he keeps. He angles his face up, feeling the heat of Raistlin’s hand against his cheek, and kisses back. 

Raistlin guides Dalamar back against the door as he leans into him, deepening the kiss. That alarm grows fainter and fainter the closer he gets to Dalamar, the more he touches him, the further they go with this, and Raistlin’s attentions turn insistent, almost frantic, and Dalamar matches him. Dalamar wraps an arm around Raistlin’s back, stroking his hand down his spine. The light touch makes Raistlin shiver, so Dalamar does it again, pressing closer to Raistlin. Raistlin’s lips are hot on his own, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this content. 

Raistlin hums into Dalamar’s mouth, bringing both hands up now to cup Dalamar's face. He kisses Dalamar harder, surrounded by smell of soft pines and fresh rain. Dalamar sighs, winding his fists into the back of Raistlin’s velvet-soft robes. Raistlin presses Dalamar against the door in earnest, now, one thigh working its way between Dalamar’s legs, though their robes restrict the movement somewhat. Raistlin barely notices, especially not when Dalamar gasps and digs his fingers into Raistlin’s back, running his tongue along Raistlin’s bottom lip. 

Raistlin moans and licks into Dalamar's mouth, one of his hands dropping to tangle in Dalamar's soft hair. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this, being close to Dalamar like this, until just now. Dalamar runs his hands up and down Raistlin’s back and into his hair, and then gently tugs his head back, breaking the kiss so that he can shift his attentions to Raistlin’s neck. He doesn’t bother marking him, just presses kiss after soft kiss to his pulse point, throat, and the hollow of his collarbone. 

Raistlin’s breath catches when Dalamar tugs on his hair, but he lets Dalamar tilt his head back. His eyes fall shut, and he focuses on the feel of Dalamar's soft lips, of the warmth of his body, pressed against Raistlin's, of the hand in his hair. Dalamar kisses up his jawbone and then back to his mouth, tugging Raistlin closer by the hair and using teeth this time. 

Raistlin gasps, his own hand in Dalamar's hair tightening and tugging. He grinds against Dalamar with the thigh between Dalamar's legs, and runs his free hand down Dalamar's jaw and neck to his chest. Dalamar moans, arching into Raistlin and pressing down on his leg. He tugs on Raistlin’s hair again, sharper. 

“Bed,” Raistlin breathes against Dalamar’s lips, but instead of moving his fingers begin to work at the clasp of Dalamar's robes.

“Yes,” says Dalamar, “Gods, yes.” He starts moving forwards, pushing Raistlin towards the bed, his own hands working to divest Raistlin of his cloak. 

Dalamar’s falls first, and Raistlin's so distracted by looking that when the back of his legs hit one of the beds, he stumbles back onto it. He uses the new position to pull Dalamar forward by the hips and start to trail kisses up his bare chest. Dalamar hums happily and pushes Raistlin’s robes down off of his shoulders, burying his face in Raistlin’s hair. It smells of magic, as Raistlin always does, of dried rose petals and ozone. 

Raistlin pushes himself up just enough to clear the robes away, then he tugs Dalamar closer, between his legs. Dalamar finds himself right up against the edge of the bed, leaning over Raistlin. He starts to push the mage back towards the mattress. 

Raistlin looks up at Dalamar through his lashes and then lays back, watching as Dalamar climbs onto the bed, propping himself on his arms to hover over Raistlin’s body. His dark hair falls into Raistlin’s face, and he grins, then lowers himself with a hand on Raistlin’s chest to resume kissing and sucking at his neck. This time he plans to leave marks.

Raistlin tilts his head back for Dalamar, reaching up just to brush some of Dalamar's hair out of the way. Dalamar bites, then runs his tongue over the mark, satisfied. Raistlin half sits up in a flash and grabs Dalamar’s chin, forcing Dalamar to look up at him.

“You and  _ that mouth _ ,” he hisses, “Got me into quite a bit of trouble last time.”

Dalamar snorts. “Did I?” 

“I'm sure Ladonna was laughing for a  _ week _ ,” Raistlin says, still holding Dalamar's chin.

Dalamar’s mouth drops open, and then he cracks up, leaning into Raistlin’s grasp and shaking with laughter. “Ladonna! Ah,  _ gods _ , of all people…” 

Raistlin tries to scowl at him, but it comes out as a pout more than anything else. Dalamar kisses him. Raistlin kisses back, a hand stroking down Dalamar's back. Dalamar lowers himself until he’s almost sitting in Raistlin’s lap and grinds down. 

Raistlin's nails dig into Dalamar's back and he moans into their kiss, arching up into Dalamar. Dalamar grinds down again, breathing heavily. He presses his body against Raistlin’s, desperate to get as close as possible. 

“Dalamar,” Raistlin breathes, but then kisses Dalamar again instead of continuing. 

“Yes, Shalafi?” Dalamar replies against his mouth.

Raistlin tries to shake his head. When that doesn’t work very well, he just breathes, “Nothing,” then pulls Dalamar to the side, rolling and switching their positions.

Dalamar lets out a surprised huff as he finds his back against the bed, and he quickly leans up to recapture Raistlin’s mouth from the new angle. Raistlin braces his arms on either side of Dalamar’s head and kisses him back, biting at his lower lip in the same way Dalamar bit his. Dalamar laughs when he does, then sinks back onto the mattress and looks up at Raistlin through his lashes, putting space in between them. It’s an invitation. 

Raistlin smirks, shifts his weight so he can trail long fingers along Dalamar’s jaw, all while looking down at Dalamar with something dangerously close to fondness in his eyes. He leans down and kisses the same line his fingers had just traced, then lower, down to Dalamar’s neck. Dalamar hums and tilts his head back, a pleased flush coloring his face pink all the way to his ears. 

“Still so beautiful,” Raistlin breathes against Dalamar’s neck. He trails his lips down to Dalamar’s collarbone and sucks a mark there, one that should be visible for days. Dalamar gasps, a sharp intake of breath, and feels himself arch into Raistlin. He loves hearing that. He feels a strange surge of pride that  _ his _ beauty is what gives Raistlin a reprieve from his curse, however small. 

Raistlin kisses his way down Dalamar's chest, hands running along the soft skin there. When he reaches Dalamar's navel, he looks up at Dalamar questioningly. Dalamar nods, eyes wide. Raistlin smirks and, teasing, he kisses along Dalamar's hip, nudging Dalamar's legs further apart then nipping at and sucking a mark into Dalamar’s inner thigh. Dalamar gasps, tangling his fingers into Raistlin’s hair. 

Raistlin sucks a matching mark into the other thigh, his hands moving to grip Dalamar’s hips tightly, and his nails biting into the skin there. 

“Ah, gods,” says Dalamar, letting his head drop back. “You’re such a tease.”

“if you're going to complain about it,” Raistlin purrs, propping himself up on one elbow, the nails of his free hand lightly scratching up Dalamar’s thigh, where the skin is now extra sensitive, “Perhaps I'll go slower; teach you patience.”

“Shalafi,  _ please _ ,” Dalamar moans. 

“Raistlin,” Raistlin corrects, looking up at Dalamar. “When we’re like this, at least.”

“Raistlin,” Dalamar breathes. It feels so much more intimate.

Raistlin nods, and then, almost thoughtfully, he licks a stripe up Dalamar's cock, then closes his lips around it and bobs down. Dalamar groans and pulls on Raistlin’s hair. Raistlin picks up a slow rhythm, one hand teasingly working its way up Dalamar’s inner thigh until-- Raistlin stops his ministrations, sits partially up, and looks at Dalamar, frowning a little. “Do you have any supplies for this?”

Dalamar groans. “I don’t think so. I wasn’t exactly expecting- well.” 

Raistlin thinks it over a moment. “We can get something tomorrow. We have a whole day to keep ourselves entertained, after all,” he says with a wicked, crooked grin. Dalamar’s eyes glint with a particular kind of hunger, and he grins back. 

“For now…” Raistlin begins, his hand finding Dalamar’s dick and giving an experimental stroke, “We’ll make do.”

Dalamar keens, his hips jerking at the sudden motion. Panting, he looks back at Raistlin, his pupils blown wide. “I suppose we will.”

“A shame,” Raistlin says, lowering himself back onto his elbows and smirking up at Dalamar, “Because I do so love being able to watch you.” He gives Dalamar another stroke, then ducks down to replace his hand with his mouth.

Dalamar moans, then fists his hands in Raistlin’s hair. “Stop,” he breathes. “Stop, wait, Sh- Raistlin, wait.”

Raistlin makes an annoyed sound and sits up again, looking at Dalamar questioningly.

“You want to watch?” Dalamar asks, breathless. 

Raistlin’s eyes widen. Dalamar leans back, adjusting his position, and Raistlin starts to sit up, freezing when Dalamar closes his eyes and reaches down. Dalamar wraps his hand around his own cock and pumps once, twice, his hips moving in time. He sighs and opens his eyes, finding and holding Raistlin’s gaze as he continues. 

Raistlin seems torn between watching Dalamar's face or his hand, but he settles on the former, his gaze hungry. Dalamar moves faster, arching into his own hand, his face going slack and his eyelids fluttering. He’s flushed and breathing hard. Raistlin can't keep himself from touching for long, though; he bats Dalamar's hand away and takes over in his place, his other hand going to his own cock and stroking. His eyes never leave Dalamar's.

The arm Dalamar is using to prop himself up gives out and he falls back onto the bed, his back arching up in a curve. He reaches for Raistlin, moaning his name. 

Raistlin pushes himself up and climbs over Dalamar, his speed faltering a little at the change of position, but his one hand still pumping Dalamar's dick. With the other arm, he props himself up, hovering above Dalamar, and leans down to kiss him. Dalamar wraps his arms around Raistlin’s neck and kisses him back, then pulls away as his entire body tenses. He cries out as he comes, then relaxes. 

Raistlin sighs and kisses Dalamar again, his lips, his cheek, his jaw, his forehead. Dalamar tries to kiss him back but ends up just leaning into it, still breathing heavily. He pushes himself up so that he can drape himself over Raistlin’s lap and reaches towards his obvious arousal. “Let me take care of you,” he says. 

Raistlin’s eyes widen and he nods, pressing his forehead to Dalamar’s and breathing almost as heavily as Dalamar is. “Been doing a lot of that lately.”

“I don’t mind it,” Dalamar says, reaching down. He thumbs the head of Raistlin’s cock and trails his fingers lightly down the side, kissing Raistlin as he does.

Raistlin shivers and kisses him back, wrapping an arm around Dalamar’s waist. Closing his hand, Dalamar gets into a rhythm, trailing his other hand down Raistlin’s bare chest. Raistlin’s breathing quickly grows ragged, and his arm around Dalamar tightens. He breathes Dalamar’s name against his lips, almost like a prayer. Dalamar shudders and breaks the kiss, ducking his head down into Raistlin’s lap. His lips take the place of his hand around Raistlin’s dick and he bobs his head, gripping Raistlin’s hips gently. 

Raistlin moans and lets his head fall back, and one of his hands tangles in Dalamar’s hair again. Dalamar swirls his tongue, strokes Raistlin’s hipbones. 

“Gods,” Raistlin breathes, and falls back onto the bed entirely. Dalamar adjusts to the new position and continues, his nails digging into Raistlin’s skin. Raistlin throws an arm over his face and gasps, his hips twitching in half-aborted movements. “Dalamar,” he warns, breathless. In reply, Dalamar takes Raistlin into his mouth all the way down to the base of his cock. 

Raistlin curses, some colorful word he picked up in Takhisis’ camp during the war, and goes tense, his grip on Dalamar’s hair becoming almost painful as he comes. Dalamar swallows, like he did the last time. When he’s done, he rests his chin on Raistlin’s thigh and gives him a sleepy smile. 

Raistlin can’t even look at him. He stares up at the ceiling instead, trying to catch his breath. Dalamar presses a kiss to his stomach. Raistlin manages to half-sit up, propping himself up on his elbows, and smile down at Dalamar.

“I think that was better than last time,” Dalamar says, raising an eyebrow. 

Raistlin hums. There’s definitely a difference between this time and the last, but he doesn’t want to put too much thought into what that difference might be. The answer is too closely linked to emotions he's been denying himself for a years. Instead, he runs his hand through Dalamar’s hair, brushing some of the long strands out of his face. Dalamar sighs and rests his cheek on Raistlin’s warm skin, feeling content.

“Come up to me,” Raistlin orders, too exhausted to move down to where Dalamar lays. Dalamar snorts and heaves himself up until he lays face to face with Raistlin and can bury his nose in Raistlin’s hair. He uses the same spell he did last time, to clean them both up, and feels a wave of exhaustion pass over him afterwards.

Raistlin snorts and wraps an arm around Dalamar, pulling him closer. “That was a waste of energy,” he says, voice gentle. He kisses Dalamar’s forehead and sighs.

Dalamar hums. “But worth it,” he says. “I’d rather waste energy than move right now.” His hands settle on Raistlin’s ribs.

“Fair,” Raistlin concedes, his eyes falling shut. Dalamar kisses his jaw, feeling warm all over. His legs are twined with Raistlin’s, the blanket pulled up around them both. Raistlin tilts his jaw into the kiss and hums sleepily. Dalamar sighs and closes his own eyes, his thumb rubbing slow circles into Raistlin’s skin until he falls asleep. Raistlin falls asleep at about the same time Dalamar does, to his companion’s warmth and the gentle patter of rain against the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i see your seven foot tall dalamar and i reject him.  
> 2\. chronicles gave me the impression that dragonlance elves are, overall, vegetarian, but i don't think a dark elf would keep that up in the face of exile/wandering and the necessity that implies.
> 
> hope you enjoyed the porn! love you guys


	6. THE SEAPORT

Raistlin wakes to find himself draped across Dalamar. He’s faintly amused by how common this occurrence is becoming. Dalamar sleeps peacefully in Raistlin's arms, his breathing heavy and his face buried in Raistlin's hair. Raistlin lets himself enjoy it for a minute, enjoy the warmth-- both the literal warmth radiating from Dalamar and the stranger, internal kind that Raistlin distantly knows is  _ happiness _ .

It's when he finally puts a name to the emotion that the panic hits him. This is not how things are supposed to be. Raistlin’s always denied himself comforts and relationships for fear of his priorities shifting, and already, on this trip, they have; Raistlin's spent more time thinking about  _ Dalamar _ and the tension between the two of them than he has their actual destination. He can't let this continue.

Then Dalamar stirs and opens his eyes. “Morning,” he murmurs, smiling soft and hesitantly.

“Good morning,” Raistlin replies, the worries disappearing like a candle snuffed out by a lid.

Dalamar stretches like a cat, curling up closer to Raistlin as he does. His hand strokes the soft skin of Raistlin’s side, soaking in the warmth there. Raistlin sighs and strokes Dalamar's hair. Dalamar leans into it, almost falling back asleep. 

“Dalamar,” Raistlin says.

“Mm,” Dalamar replies, his voice laden with sleep. “Raistlin.”

Raistlin's breath catches and his hand on Dalamar's hair stills. Dalamar opens his eyes again and looks at him, questioning.

Raistlin shakes his head, not sure how to explain that the sound of Dalamar saying his name is almost as good as the rush of magic. Instead of answering, Raistlin kisses him. With a pleased, surprised noise, Dalamar kisses back, his hands moving to Raistlin’s chest. He’d half expected to be pushed away in the morning, and so resolves to enjoy this while he has it.

Raistlin covers Dalamar’s hand with one of his own and hums into the kiss, and Dalamar’s other hand slips up Raistlin’s neck and into his hair. He smiles against Raistlin’s mouth. The warmth in his chest is almost painful at this point. He wishes he could put a word to it, but the feeling is mostly foreign to him. It makes him think, briefly, of Ergoth and wild magic, but then he changes the angle of the kiss and the thought is gone. 

Raistlin runs a tongue along Dalamar's lower lip and deepens the kiss, moving closer to him on the narrow bed. Dalamar opens his mouth slightly, shifting to press his chest to Raistlin’s. Raistlin runs a hand over Dalamar's jaw and through his hair, and Dalamar’s suddenly struck by how fond of Raistlin he is, on top of everything else he feels. He pushes himself up on an elbow so he can lean down to kiss Raistlin more, one arm almost cradling his head and the other still pressed to his chest. 

Raistlin rolls onto his back to adjust to the new position, and with Dalamar like this, half on top of Raistlin, his proximity is almost overwhelming. Raistlin closes his eyes to the kiss and tries to be entirely present in this moment, not wondering  _ what next _ , not worrying about strange, flowering emotions or quests for forgotten artifacts. Dalamar’s thumb rubs slow circles into the skin of his sternum and he licks into Raistlin’s mouth.

Raistlin meets the open kiss eagerly, his hand traveling up Dalamar's back. Dalamar sighs and continues, running his tongue along Raistlin’s. He marvels at how soft Raistlin is- the skin along his ribs, his lips, his hair, the gentle way he touches Dalamar. It’s such a contrast to the image most people have of him.

Dalamar can feel his entire body relax, tension he didn’t even know he held leaving his muscles. All that exists is Raistlin’s hand on his cheek and Raistlin’s mouth on his. Raistlin breaks the kiss and lays back, studying Dalamar's face through half-lidded eyes. 

Dalamar watches him through his hair, which is falling in his face. “Something on your mind?” he asks, soft. 

“Just you,” Raistlin says, then frowns at the truthfulness of it.

Dalamar flushes, but smiles, brushing a lock of Raistlin’s hair back from his face. Raistlin studies Dalamar's smile, remembering some of his earlier worries. Dalamar runs a finger along Raistlin’s cheekbone, watching his expression. 

Raistlin catches Dalamar’s hand with his own and kisses it. “What?” he asks.

“Just thinking,” Dalamar says, “about how beautiful you are like this.” He means it to sound flirtatious and coy, but his breath catches and breaks his voice halfway through. 

Raistlin's eyebrows shoot up. “ _ Me _ ?” he asks.

“Yes?” Dalamar replies, frowning. 

Raistlin blinks at him. “If you insist.”

“I do,” says Dalamar. “You’re entrancing. I’ve always been attracted to you, I’m sure you know that.” He continues tracing the fine bones of Raistlin’s face, his lips, his jaw. 

“I'll allow entrancing,” Raistlin says. “I'm not sure about beautiful.  _ You're  _ beautiful.”

“More than one person can be beautiful,” Dalamar says with a wry smile. “I think you are. Is that not okay?” 

Raistlin shrugs. “You can think what you like. Especially since it benefits  _ me _ .”

Dalamar laughs and kisses him again. Raistlin hums in surprise and kisses back. This continues for a while, the two of them content to lay next to each other in their shared warmth, pressing kisses to lips and skin. Dalamar can feel his anxieties and conflicts melting away in the heat of Raistlin’s touch. 

“We should get something to eat,” Raistlin eventually says, brushing back Dalamar’s hair.

“Hmmm,” says Dalamar. “Yes, probably.” He stretches. “And I can run out and pick up supplies, if you’re still interested.” 

“I am,” Raistlin says definitively. 

Dalamar kisses him again, then pulls away and rolls out of bed to find his robes. They head down to get breakfast, slightly cold eggs, given the already late hour. As they sit eating, they don’t talk much, but it’s comfortable. Occasionally, Raistlin’s hand brushes Dalamar or Dalamar’s leg brushes against Raistlin’s under the table-- occasionally, but more than probably necessary. The pleased flush stays on Dalamar’s face the entire time they’re eating. 

After breakfast, Dalamar pulls up his hood, double checks his purse, and heads out into the rain. Gander isn’t the largest city, but he’s sure he should be able to acquire what he needs at any apothecary he can find, and it shouldn’t take him too long to locate one in a seaport of this size. He heads downhill, towards the wharves. If there’s a brothel district here, his life will be even easier.

He grins to himself. He almost feels like skipping, or whistling, or singing something, but the sight of a black robe wizard skipping down the street singing would probably be more than enough to attract attention even in a place like this. He laughs just thinking about it.

The first apothecary he finds is a hole-in-the-wall kind of place with a dingy exterior and a smoked glass window, crammed in between a brothel and a tavern. Perfect. When he enters, the man behind the counter looks up at him, bored, and then looks again, this time with fear in his eyes. Wizards tend to be very particular about where their spell components come from. Dalamar assumes the man hasn’t seen many. He leans on the counter nonchalantly and tells the man what he needs, laughing unkindly when he trips while scurrying off to find it. 

Dalamar finds his thoughts straying back to Raistlin over and over. He remembers the feel of Raistlin’s hands on him, of his hands on Raistlin, the way his voice sounded when he asked Dalamar to use his name. He thinks of waking up in his arms. He’s so caught up in thoughts of his Shalafi that he hardly notices when the shopkeep comes back and takes his money, and almost forgets to collect his change. Shoving it all back into his purse, he leaves, still daydreaming. 

The cold rain is a shock, and it snaps Dalamar out of his reverie. He blinks, taking in the sights around him for the first time since leaving the tavern this morning. A flutter of white and red in a window of the brothel next door catches his eye, and the thoughts he’s been desperately trying to suppress come back to him all at once, coating his throat with acid and sitting in his stomach like bile. The Conclave.

He needs fresh air. He needs to think. Instead of heading back to the inn and Raistlin, he turns towards the wharves and walks until he can feel the salty spray of the sea mixing with the rain on his face. His robes are already soaked through, and it’s colder here, close to the waves. He sits for a while and mulls the situation over, but he keeps coming back to the same conclusion. 

Then, there’s a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he sees robes of white, protected by a shimmering spell against rain. The face within the robes looks familiar to him, but he can’t name the wizard. Someone from the Tower at Waylan, he assumes. Perhaps someone who works under Par Salian.

“Dalamar Argent,” the man says. 

“Nightson,” Dalamar corrects, already irritable. “It’s Dalamar Nightson.” 

The white robe shrugs it off. What was his name? Lo- something. Dalamar can’t remember. “Let us talk,” he says, “somewhere we have less chance of being overheard.” 

Dalamar blinks, his heart suddenly in the vicinity of his knees. “Of course,” he says, and follows the other man. The white robe leads Dalamar further from the inn, further from Raistlin. They walk past passenger boats and mercantile craft, past warships and old, decrepit, decaying things whose purpose is no longer recognizable. There’s an inn, there, and the white robe leads him to a heavily bespelled room. He shuts the door and the magic activates, swirling around Dalamar in a spiral of bright light. While he blinks it off, the white robe turns towards him. “Par Salian sent me to find you,” he says. “He was worried. You missed your usual appointment.” 

“Ah,” Dalamar says. “My apologies. I had already left town.” 

“Of course,” says the white robe. “But one would expect you to at least inform us of  _ that. _ ” 

Ah, there it is, Dalamar thinks. He had plenty of time in which to tell them of Raistlin’s plans, but he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want to ask himself why. Irritated, he scowls, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robes. “I was under the impression that I only needed to report my Shalafi’s movements if they were  _ important _ ,” he sneers. “A jaunt to a seaport for spell components hardly qualifies.”

“You are supposed,” the white robe says, “to report  _ all _ of his movements, and plan for your absences. Unless, perhaps, your loyalties have changed?” 

“Of course not,” Dalamar says, raising an eyebrow. The acid in his stomach hurts, now. “I told Ladonna that he wouldn’t turn me, and he hasn’t.” 

He realizes, as he says this, that Raistlin  _ has _ . 

“I see,” says the white robe. 

“Tell Par Salian to expect a full report from me when I return,” Dalamar says, trying his best to look disinterested. “Can I leave?” The world is starting to feel distant and unreal somehow, and all he wants is to get back outside and feel the rain on his face. 

“Yes, if that is all. There may be an inquiry, Argent, I hope you know.” The white robe opens the door for him. Dalamar steps through it, his head buzzing. 

“It’s Nightson,” he says, faintly. The white robed mage closes the door. Somehow, Dalamar makes it down the stairs and outside into the cold, stumbling only slightly as he does. Realization hits him at the same time as the rain does. 

His loyalties have changed. He fully belongs to Raistlin Majere, now, and even worse: Dalamar is in  _ love _ with him. 

He runs. 

 

\---

 

Raistlin spends the time after Dalamar leaves, the first time he's had to himself in several days, wishing he’d gone with. Alone, he has too much space to think. With too much space to think, his mind wanders to thoughts and emotions he’s not ready to broach. He sits down with his spellbooks instead, but after ten minutes of staring at the words swirling on the page, he decides he needs to get out of this room. He needs to get away from this bed, where just last night, he and Dalamar-- 

No. He’s not going to think about that anymore. It’s a problem, he decides, for when they get back to the tower. Instead, he pulls his hood up over his head and leaves the inn. As he does so, he catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and pauses, but when he looks, it’s gone. He sneers and continues on, much more wary. He has a suspicion, now, of what might be keeping Dalamar.

He goes down to the docks, stopping at boat after boat until he finds a ship captain willing to leave tomorrow. It’s a cargo ship, transporting livestock to Pontigoth, but Raistlin assures the captain he and his companion would be willing to sleep wherever there’s room. He pays her steep fee and, satisfied this journey will be over with that much sooner, heads back to the inn.

Dalamar is there, in the room, sitting on the unused bed. His spellbook lies open in his lap, but his eyes are unfocused, staring at a point on the wall across from him. He looks up when Raistlin enters. 

Raistlin raises an eyebrow at Dalamar’s obvious distraction, but says, “I found a ship willing to leave tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” says Dalamar, his face drawn and shuttered. “I’m glad.” 

Raistlin studies Dalamar a moment, then shrugs. On his trip around the docks, he’d caught the same glimpse of red several times. That, paired with the way Dalamar’s acting now, confirms his suspicions, and Dalamar's grip on Raistlin loosens, just a little. Enough to begin to close himself back off. “As am I,” he says, sitting on his own bed.

“Shalafi,” Dalamar says, then stops, and swallows. “I have a confession to make.” 

Raistlin’s eyes widen, for just a fraction of a second, but then he quickly controls his expression. He watches Dalamar coolly. “Oh?”

Dalamar closes his eyes, sitting straight and still. “When I was chosen to be your apprentice,” he starts, “it was with a particular goal in mind. I was to report your doings to the heads of the Conclave, in detail. I have been doing that.” His voice is cold and impartial, but there’s a tremor in it. It’s taking him a great effort to keep the emotions tamped down. He sighs. “Today I was contacted by a white robe from the Conclave, because I neglected to tell Par Salian we were leaving.” With difficulty, he looks at Raistlin. 

Raistiln’s also very still, no trace of any expression on his face. “So?” he asks, “Why tell me now?”

Dalamar resumes staring at the wall. “In my time with you I have seen magic the Conclave could never dream of. I don’t care about anything else. I don’t care what petty aspirations the Conclave has, and if they are worried about you, then perhaps they should be. My loyalties lie entirely with the magic, and with you.” He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself. “Ladonna told me you would try to turn me, and you have,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I could no more do without you than without magic itself.” 

Dalamar’s eyes are shut, so he doesn’t see the ripple of surprise that passes over Raistlin’s face. Something like a fierce, warm kind of possessiveness sears through him, the most dangerous emotion he's felt on this trip so far. “That still doesn't answer why  _ now _ ,” he says, wondering if it's this-- this whatever is between them that forced the confession, or if it's something the white robe said to Dalamar.

Dalamar shrugs, misery covering his features. “It seems as good a time as any. The Conclave will be expecting a full report from me when we return. If you want to kill me, or get rid of me, you should do it now. I will accept it. I deserve it.” 

“What would  _ you _ do, if you were in my position?” Raistlin asks, his voice soft. Dark emotions roil in his gut. He never thought he'd lose the upper hand, not with this-- never thought Dalamar would hand over his secret so willingly. It’s caught Raistlin by surprise, the hurt lodging between his ribs.

“I don’t know,” Dalamar replies. 

“Hmm,” Raistlin says, leaning back against the wall and shutting his eyes, “Neither do I.”

“Should I,” Dalamar starts, but his breath catches in his throat. “Should I leave?”

Raistlin frowns, but doesn't open his eyes. “No.”

Dalamar feels relief and terror both spike within him. He isn’t sure which is stronger. He watches Raistlin, and waits. After a minute, Raistlin opens his eyes and looks at Dalamar. There’s still no expression on his face. “I knew, of course.”

“You  _ knew _ ?” Dalamar asks, his shock showing on his face for a second. Then, he sighs, and moans into his hands. “Of course you knew. Of course.”

Raistlin sneers. “The only wonder is how you thought you could hide it from  _ me _ ,” he says, his reflexive vitriol taking over while the rest of his conscious mind flounders in a wave of confusion and hurt.

Dalamar sighs. “And yet you don’t… want me to leave.”

“It makes no difference l whether the Conclave knows what I’m doing if they can't stop me,” Raistlin says with a shrug. “Keep reporting to them, for all I care.”

“I don’t think they’ll trust me, after this,” Dalamar mutters, at a loss for what else to say. He feels something sharp lodge itself into his heart and tries not to think too hard about it. 

“ _ This? _ ” Raistlin asks.

“ _ This _ being that I lied to their faces this morning,” Dalamar says, in the same hopeless tone. 

“My, you certainly seem to do a lot of that,” Raistlin observes, coldly.

Dalamar gives him a desperate look. “Everything that I’ve told you today has been the truth,” he says. 

“But  _ why _ ,” Raistlin begins, leaning forward, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Dalamar, “Should I believe that?”

Dalamar shudders under his scrutiny. He can’t think of an answer. There’s no reason Raistlin should believe him, and he knows his usual convincing lines would not work on Raistlin, would probably just make him angrier. “If you want me to prove it I will,” he says. “Anything, so long as I can go on learning with you.” 

“You seem to think you’ve hurt me far more than you have, Dalamar Nightson,” Raistlin says, his voice colder than the biting chill of the rain beating against the window. The words feel wrong, even as they leave his mouth, but he can't seem to stop them. “I don’t care whether you come with me or stay behind. I don’t care how  _ trustworthy  _ you are. I don’t care  _ what _ you tell the Conclave. It doesn’t matter.  _ You _ don’t matter.”

Dalamar’s eyes go wide, then his face closes off all at once. He nods, then stands. “Of course, Shalafi. How silly of me. I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow.” His voice is cold and completely devoid of emotion. He looks at the door, then waits for a dismissal. 

“Good. We leave just after dawn,” Raistlin says, his hand waving in the dismissal Dalamar waits for, moving without Raistlin's conscious thought. He feels numb.

Dalamar disappears out the door, and he doesn’t come back. 

When the door closes, Raistlin presses a hand to his heart. It  _ hurts. _ He doesn’t remember the last time he’s hurt like this. When Rosamun died, maybe? But no, even that didn’t hurt like this. This nausea, mingling with the sharp pang of guilt. Raistlin would take any loss, and illness, any injury, to feeling like this. 

Raistlin screws his eyes shut and lays back on the bed, his hand still covering his heart. He feels the sting of tears pricking at his eyes, and he throws an arm over his face. He curses Dalamar, curses him for confessing  _ now _ , for ruining whatever strange relationship they’d developed, but he curses himself more, for lashing out, for his weakness, for the  _ pain _ he feels, for the fact that already, all he wants to do is find Dalamar, fall to his knees, and apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. one of the things i really like about dalamar as a character is that he chose his own surname- nightson as opposed to argent. i mean, people still call him argent, but as someone who also picked their own name that must get pretty obnoxious.   
> 2\. these boys are a pair of disasters.


	7. THE SHIP

Dalamar is waiting by the wharf in the morning, a dark shape against the gray of the sea. He has his pack, and holds his hand out for Raistlin’s when the other mage approaches him. Aside from that, he doesn’t say a word in greeting. 

Raistlin hands it to him wordlessly, eyeing Dalamar. He looks tired. Raistlin wants to ask where he slept--  _ if _ he slept-- but he keeps the question to himself and heads toward the ship, expecting Dalamar to follow. He looks up at the sky as he goes. It’s gray, and there are some questionable looking clouds on the horizon, but it’s not raining. Raistlin hopes it stays that way.

Dalamar follows, feeling much like the storm-tossed sea. He’d spent a sleepless night in one of the rotting shipwrecks, cursing himself for his own stupidity. It hasn’t left him particularly excited for the voyage, but, as far as Dalamar is concerned, the sooner this trip is over with, the better. He doesn’t know  _ what _ he’ll do when he gets back. He figures he'll deal with it when it happens, as he has with everything else so far. He drops their packs in the corner of their quarters and heads for the deck of the ship.

Raistlin watches him go and sighs, surveying their narrow quarters. There’s barely room to move in here, between the small table, the narrow bunk bed, and now, their bags. Nonetheless, Raistlin chooses to stay down there rather than go after Dalamar. He pulls out his spellbooks, and, by the light of his staff, reads until he feels the ship leave the port.

On deck, Dalamar stands huddled in his cloak and watches the shoreline disappear. He feels raw, like his insides were hollowed out with a heavy hand and a sharp instrument. Dalamar thought that he was getting better at accepting pain- that he excels at it, actually, that pain of any kind is no more trouble for him than rain or snow. But the intensity of this shocks him, and he finds himself thrown, desperately scrabbling for a way to protect himself.

He did this to himself, he knows. He doesn’t know if he would have done differently, given the chance to, and he doesn’t want to think about it. There’s no point dwelling on regrets. 

He stays on deck, watching the widening span of sea between the ship and shore. 

 

\---

 

The first day of the journey, they’re lucky; there’s rain, but it’s light and doesn’t much affect the course of the ship. Raistlin and Dalamar avoid each other, for the most part, speaking only when necessary. Dalamar sits on the deck with his hood drawn, watching the waves and ignoring any attempts to talk to him. Not that many people do. The aura of malcontent around him is tangible, hanging in the air much like the cloud cover above the ship. Dalamar wonders idly when it will break, unleash its torrential fury onto this boat, the sea, the sky. Whether he means his mood or the storm clouds he doesn't really know. 

The second day, they’re not so lucky. Around noon, the storm picks up, rain pelting against the deck of the ship and heavy winds threatening to blow it off course. The crew runs around checking ropes and securing sails, and the captain confines all guests to their own rooms, partially for their own safety, but mostly so they stay out of the way.

Raistlin and Dalamar find themselves trapped together in their small room, able to hear the storm raging above them but unable to go see what’s happening. Raistlin ignores Dalamar, for the most part, instead pondering the  _ last _ time he was on a ship during a storm. How long ago that seems to him now. How different things were.

Dalamar studies his spellbook, even when the light from the tiny window is entirely obscured by the storm. He hopes it doesn’t delay the voyage. He’s finding it hard to be in the same room as Raistlin, despite his attempts to, for lack of a better term, suck it up. 

“Do you want light?” Raistlin asks him. He’s given up trying to read, personally, and is laying in bed just thinking.

“No, Shalafi,” Dalamar replies, quiet. “I can see in the dark.” 

Raistlin’s glad for the bunk separating them, then, because he’s sure the embarrassment is making him blush. “Hm. Right.”

Dalamar doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to make of Raistlin, how to respond to him. All day, he’s been making gestures that once Dalamar may have read as evidence of fondness or even care, however small. Dalamar is cold and polite in return, declining the offered food, insisting on taking his usual share of their day to day burdens. Inside the cold mask, he’s confused and lost and still hurting, and it’s making him irritable. 

Raistlin sighs and doesn’t try to keep the conversation going. He’s not sure how to, and he’s not sure what he can say, after their fight. That familiar pang of guilt comes back, the one he’s gotten  _ so _ used to over the past two days, and he once again tries to tell himself  _ he’s _ the one who’s been betrayed, not  _ Dalamar. _ The excuse rings hollow and he knows it.

Dalamar puts down his spellbook and rolls over to face the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. The movement shakes the entire shoddy bunk, and he sighs. 

Dalamar’s sigh cuts to Raistlin’s soul. Before he can change his mind, he says, “Dalamar.”

Dalamar hums, then clears his throat. “Yes, Shalafi?” 

Raistlin presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, then drops his arms, sighing. “I…” He stops, and he almost doesn’t continue. “I'm  sorry.”

Dalamar freezes, his eyes wide in the dark. “For what?” 

Raistlin grits his teeth, but he’s made it this far and won’t stop now. “What I said. They were words spoken out of anger,” he says, then hesitates again. “And they were untrue.”

Dalamar rolls onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling of the cabin. He heard what Raistlin said, but the meaning hasn’t processed yet. 

When Raistlin doesn’t hear anything, he continues, hoping he’s at least helping more than he is hurting. “I don’t...Hm.” Another pause. “Be patient with me, I’m not used to this. To caring so much about someone that it matters to me when I hurt them, I mean. Normally, I hurt people and just don't care enough to fix it. I’m not sure what I can say, if anything, to remedy this, but you…” Raistlin stops and squeezes his eyes shut. “You are  _ the most _ important person in my life right now. To say you’re anything less would be a lie.”

Dalamar feels himself stop breathing.

Raistlin sighs, trying to keep the impatience out of the sound. Not having to look at Dalamar while he apologizes helps, but it’s still not easy. “The other day, you said that you wished to be seen, to be understood, to have someone to talk to, and I said that I understood. That’s something I’ve hoped for all my life, and these last few days in particular, I’ve felt as if I found that with you,” Raistlin admits. He’s sure his face is redder than Lunitari, by this point.

Dalamar touches him on the shoulder, lightly. He’s standing by the bunk now, silhouetted against the angry grey sky in the porthole. Raistlin looks up at him, surprised. He wishes he could see what Dalamar’s expression is like. It would be nice to know whether he should be relieved or readying a defensive spell.

“Thank you,” Dalamar says. It feels like the appropriate thing to say. He's never actually been apologized to before, not really. 

Raistlin’s breath leaves him in a rush. “Thank  _ you _ ,” he says, sitting up, careful not to hit his head on the top bunk.

Dalamar sighs and sinks to the floor by the bunk, leaning his head against the wood of the bed frame near Raistlin’s knee. He’s still holding onto himself like he’ll fall apart if he lets go, but a certain tension goes out of his shoulders.

Raistlin gets down and kneels beside Dalamar. He begins reaching for him, but abandons the movement halfway, not sure if he’s allowed, after everything. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says, and he means it. He’s not sure  _ why _ he means it, or where this is coming from, but he means it. He hopes Dalamar can tell.

Dalamar leans forward until his forehead is against Raistlin’s chest, a patter of warm droplets dripping from his face onto the other wizard’s robes. _Ah,_ he thinks. _The storm breaks_. When Raistlin realizes what’s happening, he stares down at Dalamar in alarm, not sure what to do. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, again, unable to stop apologizing now that he’s started. He reaches up and pets Dalamar’s hair in what’s hopefully a soothing motion. Dalamar presses his face closer into Raistlin’s chest, the tears still flowing. He unwraps his arms from around himself and twists his hands into the front of Raistlin’s robes.

Raistlin kisses the top of Dalamar’s head and drops his hand to rub slow circles into Dalamar’s back. “Of  _ course _ I care about you,” he breathes. “You’re…” he stops, not sure how to continue and not sure that he wants to.

Dalamar takes a shaky breath. “I missed you,” he says, quiet. “These last two days. I thought I could get through it, but… well.” He sighs and wipes at his eyes. “I forgive you.”

“I missed you, as well,” Raistlin says, his own honesty scaring him again. “Thank you.” 

Dalamar hums, then tenses and pulls back all at once, removing himself from Raistlin’s grasp. Raistlin's eyes widen, his hand left hanging in midair. 

“Shalafi,” Dalamar says, a note of desperation in his voice, “I would like to formally apologize for betraying you and sharing the secrets of your work with the Conclave.” 

Raistlin fights the urge to roll his eyes. “You're forgiven,” he says, “Of course.”

Dalamar relaxes, pitching forwards into Raistlin’s arms again. He sighs. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he says. 

Raistlin sighs and wraps his arms around Dalamar, half determined never to let go. 

Dalamar feels the ice around him start to recede. He still feels raw and tender, but it will heal. Raistlin is warm against him, and having him there feels right in a way Dalamar has only rarely experienced. 

“Dalamar,” Raistlin says, almost directly into Dalamar's ear. His arms tighten around Dalamar. “Can we move this onto the bed? My knees…”

Dalamar snorts and pulls back, shifting into a crouch. “Of course, Shalafi,” he says, and in one fluid movement scoops Raistlin into his arms. Looking smug, he stands, and deposits Raistlin gently and carefully into the bottom bunk before falling in beside him. 

Raistlin huffs and tries to look annoyed, but clearly isn't annoyed enough to try to push Dalamar away. “Warning, next time,” he says, sounding fond and not at all upset.

Dalamar laughs a little and scoots closer, putting a hand on Raistlin’s chest. Raistlin covers it with his own and says, “I missed sleeping beside you.”

Dalamar sighs and closes his eyes, relaxing in the proximity. He’s surrounded by Raistlin’s warmth and Raistlin’s scent as they’re pressed together on the narrow bunk, the storm rocking them back and forth. He feels heat prickling at the corners of his eyes again. 

When a particularly bad burst of wind hits the ship, Raistlin winds an arm around Dalamar to keep him from falling right off the bed. He keeps his arm there after. Dalamar leans his wet cheek on Raistlin’s chest, exhausted. 

Raistlin rubs small, soothing circles into Dalamar's side, in a strange state of numbness himself. Anything less and he'll start to panic again, but this feels good and this feels right. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, breathing in Dalamar's scent.

Dalamar falls asleep without meaning to, soothed by Raistlin’s warmth and the rocking of the boat. Sleep is harder to find for Raistlin, who's too busy relentlessly avoiding the nagging in his mind that tells him there's a  _ word _ for this, for this feeling, if he only dares think it. He strokes Dalamar's hair absently as he sleeps, and only when the boats rocking recedes and the sound of the rain hitting the upper deck softens to a dim patter does Raistlin manage to sleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw, love some emo boys. we were going to stretch the, ah, fight/betrayal/fallout/whatever out a lot longer, but couldn't manage to do it. 
> 
> any bets on what word raistlin's trying to think of?


	8. PONTIGOTH

Dalamar wakes, once again in Raistlin’s warm embrace. He almost thinks it’s a dream at first, but his arm’s asleep from being stuck under the wizard’s body and his head aches, probably from dehydration, so he brushes the thought away. He lets his arm stay asleep, ignoring the pins and needles. If he moves even an inch he’ll probably wake Raistlin, and he needs the quiet. 

He studies the mage in his arms cautiously. The light filtering through the porthole is still grey, but less from the storm and more from the colorless time just before dawn. It makes Raistlin look soft, smooths the lines of his cheekbones until they’re no harsher than the gentle curls of his hair on the pillow. He breathes slowly. Dalamar loves him so much he could die of it.

Despite this, Dalamar is wary. He hasn’t gotten this far by being idealistic and naive, and he knows he needs to guard his heart more, even and _ especially _ when it seems like he’s safe. He trusted Raistlin too much- he still trusts Raistlin too much, and because of that he hadn’t been prepared. The smart thing to do would be to remove his emotions from the situation entirely and proceed towards his goal as Raistlin’s apprentice, nothing more. 

He knows this, but he doesn’t  _ want _ to pull back, doesn’t want to shield himself. He’s never really been apologized to before. He’s never had someone offer to fix the hurt they’d caused him. Dalamar’s wounds don’t tend to heal, and he’d expected this one to stay in his heart like a festering sore just like all the others. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s accustomed to pain, but not to the process of healing. He doesn’t know anything about it, he’s never experienced it.

He finds that he wants to. 

And that’s that, then. Despite his common sense, despite every part of him that knows better, Dalamar resolves to stay, and to stay vulnerable. He will open himself to the possibility of more hurt for the chance to heal, and he will not regret it, no matter what happens. If he gets hurt again, it’s his own fault, he resolves. He can live with that. 

Dalamar presses his lips to the crown of Raistlin’s head, and holds the mage until he wakes. 

Raistlin wakes shortly after Dalamar. His body aches in ways he's no longer used to, his muscles sore from travel, his back aching from uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, and he groans, annoyed, before he even really becomes aware of the things that  _ are  _ comfortable: Dalamar's warmth, Dalamar's arms around him.

“Good morning, Shalafi,” Dalamar murmurs into his hair. 

Raistlin hums and opens his eyes, noting immediately the pale light of the room. “Morning,” he mumbles.

Dalamar shifts, pulling an arm out from under Raistlin and shaking it out a few times, flexing the fingers before tucking it back close to his chest. “Did you sleep?” he asks. 

“Not well,” Raistlin says, exhaustion still hanging in his voice. He wraps and hand in Dalamar's robes and leans into him, seeking the warmth he lost when Dalamar shifted positions.

“You should try to go back to sleep, then,” Dalamar replies, pulling Raistlin close. He reaches over and tucks the blanket around them both more firmly. 

Raistlin sighs. “I'm not sure I can,” he says, shifting into a half-sitting position so he can look out the small window. “It'll be morning soon. I'd like to know how far off course that storm knocked us.”

“I can find out,” Dalamar says. “You should rest.”

Raistlin lays back alongside Dalamar and studies his face closely, thoughtfully. “Fine. But there's no need for you to go right this moment,” he says, stroking a thumb up along Dalamar’s cheekbone. “How did  _ you _ sleep?”

Dalamar closes his eyes. “Soundly,” he says, and is surprised when it’s the truth. 

“Good,” Raistlin says, his voice gentle. There’s no edge to it, no bitterness, no sarcasm, no hidden threat. It’s just gentle.

Dalamar feels his last remaining walls melt, and he meets Raistlin’s eyes. He wonders if he’s going to cry again. His emotions have been as wild as the stormy sea over the last few days, and he’s given up trying to predict them. 

If Raistlin notices the flurry of emotion, he doesn’t comment, instead leaning in to kiss Dalamar, lightly. Dalamar returns the kiss, almost glowing with relief and happiness. Even after everything, he’d wondered whether Raistlin would still want him. Raistlin breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Dalamar’s, breathing in deep and letting out a satisfied sigh.

Dalamar smiles. “Something on your mind?”

Raistlin thinks, very briefly, of all the things he’s been trying very hard  _ not _ to think about since last night. “Just worried about that storm,” he says. “Not that I’d necessarily mind spending another day in this room with you.”

Dalamar sighs and stretches, draping his limbs around Raistlin. “I wouldn’t either,” he breathes. “But it looks as if the storm has cleared.” 

“Mm,” Raistlin says, curling up against Dalamar and closing his eyes. Dalamar presses soft kisses to Raistlin’s cheeks, his eyelids, his nose, enjoying the proximity. Raistlin smirks and scrunches up his nose at the onslaught. When Dalamar seems to be done, Raistlin kisses him back. Dalamar laughs into his mouth. Raistlin smiles into it as well, distantly realizing how ridiculously the two of them are acting but not caring enough to stop.

When Dalamar touches him, it’s like a fog clouds Raistlin’s mind, so thick that he can neither see nor remember his reasons for staying away from this, or for fearing it. He doesn't mind it, though. Doesn’t  _ care _ . Doesn’t care that he's losing his grasp on reasons to hold back, and doesn't care what consequences this may bring in the future. Even with this fog, with Dalamar close like this, Raistlin doesn’t feel that he’s losing himself in this, this flurry of emotion he used to consider a weakness. Yes, his priorities have shifted, but not by  _ much _ , and why shouldn’t he have this? Why shouldn’t he have  _ everything _ that he wants? 

Dalamar strokes a finger along Raistlin’s cheekbone, his other arm winding around the wizard’s waist. He kisses him again, and feels warm. Raistlin winds a hand into Dalamar’s hair, holding him in place while he kisses Dalamar more insistently. Dalamar sighs into Raistlin’s mouth, relaxing into his hold. Both his hands settle on Raistlin’s hips. 

Raistlin presses closer to him, the hand not in Dalamar’s hair settling on his chest. Dalamar lays back against the pillows and pulls Raistlin on top of him for a better angle. Raistlin straddles Dalamar, as much as his robes allow, and pauses to brush his hair out of his face before resuming kissing Dalamar. Dalamar arches up into him, practically purring, and runs his hands up Raistlin’s sides. 

Raistlin hums, finding Dalamar’s hands with his own, twining their fingers together and pinning Dalamar’s hands on either side of his head. Dalamar could break Raistlin's grip easily, but he only grins, eyes wide. Raistlin grins back and ducks his head, kissing along Dalamar’s jawline. Dalamar hums and tilts his head back. Raistlin’s kisses are light and gentle, and when he reaches Dalamar’s jaw, he stops and sighs happily against Dalamar’s skin. 

Dalamar leans into him. “We should ask about the storm,” he says, quietly. 

“We probably should,” Raistlin agrees, releasing Dalamar’s hands but making no move to climb off him. Dalamar pushes himself up on one elbow and kisses Raistlin again, his other hand finding its way into Raistlin’s hair. 

Raistlin kisses back, briefly, then tries to sit up, only to hit his head on the bottom of the top bunk. He swears, loudly. Dalamar’s mouth drops for a second. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, reaching up. 

Raistlin just scowls and rubs the back of his head, looking annoyed. Dalamar laughs, fond and happy, and tries to cover the back of Raistlin’s head with his hands, shielding it. Raistlin turns his scowl on Dalamar, its force softening to a pout. Dalamar attempts to scoot out from under him, but the rocking of the boat just knocks him back into Raistlin. 

This time, it’s Raistlin’s turn to laugh. Careful of his head, he climbs off Dalamar and out of bed, taking a moment to stretch and reorient himself to the rocking of the ship. Dalamar watches the long lines of Raistlin’s body appreciatively, then slides out after him, rubbing at his eyes. 

Raistlin waits for him to be ready before heading out onto the open deck. He pulls his hood up to fight off the immediate bite of cold wind that hits him and peers around at the ship, immediately spotting the ship captain and heading over to her.

“How long until we reach Pontigoth?” he asks by way of greeting.

“Oh, it's you two,” the captain says, eyeing Raistlin and Dalamar skeptically. “Was starting to think you died down there or something.”

Raistlin frowns at her. “Pontigoth?” he repeats, impatiently.

“What,  _ that _ Pontigoth?” she asks, pointing off the starboard side. Raistlin follows the line of her finger and sees the city, perhaps just a few miles off. “We'll be able to bring 'er in in about an hour.”

Dalamar leans over the side of the ship, squinting at the city. “It’ll only be about a day more, maybe two, after we land,” he calls to Raistlin. 

Raistlin watches Dalamar, and the captain watches him watch him with a raised eyebrow. The tension between the two of them seems to be gone, and she has several guesses why.

“Good,” Raistlin says, joining Dalamar at the side of the ship.

“Ah, I haven’t seen Ergoth in years,” Dalamar says, gazing at the coastline. 

“Hmm,” Raistlin says, watching the city grow slowly closer with a glint of excitement in his eyes. It’s not clear whether he even heard what Dalamar said.

Dalamar watches him with caution in his eyes, his emotions shuttered. He’s excited too, of course. And he’ll do anything to get Raistlin what he wants, but part of him worries all the same. 

“We should get our things packed,” Raistlin says, tearing his eyes from Pontigoth to look at Dalamar. “I want to get walking right away.”

“Of course,” Dalamar says, then pauses. “Are you planning on going through Pontigoth itself?”

“I was, yes,” Raistlin says, giving Dalamar a curious look.

Dalamar looks back at the water, his expression dark. “I may have to meet you once you leave it. I know the back roads relatively well, but I can’t be spotted here for too long.” 

Raistlin stares at Dalamar, waiting for an explanation.

“We’re too close to the elves,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “The Kagonesti. I believe the Qualinesti have a city nearby as well.” 

Raistlin, understanding, sighs. “You couldn't have mentioned this  _ before  _ we boarded a ship headed straight for Pontigoth?”

“I’ve been here before,” Dalamar shrugs. “No one found me then. But I didn’t go through the city.”

“There's no way around going through the city, now,” Raistlin says, drumming his fingers along the ship’s railing. “Unless you feel like going for a little swim.”

Dalamar shrugs. “It would be a pain with my spellbooks.” 

“Then we’ll cast an illusion on you until we’re out of the city, take only back roads until we reach our destination,” Raistlin says off-handedly.

Dalamar freezes, and turns a look of stone cold fury on Raistlin. He opens his mouth to say something, then blinks, shakes his head. All of the anger goes out of him in one long sigh, and he nods. 

“You brought this on yourself,” Raistlin snaps, annoyed by the look Dalamar gave him. “It's the best solution we have, with this being so  _ last minute.” _

Dalamar scowls. “I know,” he snaps back. “I know!” He groans. “Just…. you do it,” he says. 

“It won't be for long, Raistlin says, voice softening, “And I won't do it until we’re closer to the shore.”

Dalamar drops his head into his hands. “Sure,” he says. 

“I’m thinking I'll turn you into a giant kender,” Raistlin says, pleasantly.

Dalamar’s forehead hits the balustrade. Raistlin just snickers and looks very pleased with himself.

“Rub it in, why don’t you,” Dalamar grumbles. 

“I believe it's called trying to  _ ease the tension _ ,” Raistlin says.

Dalamar broods until the ship nears the shore and the two retreat belowdecks to gather their possessions. He picks up his spellbook and sighs. “Just get it over with.” 

“I'll try to make it as  _ painless _ as possible,” Raistlin says dryly, pulling out his spellbook and glancing over the words of the spell one more time. He puts it away and focuses on the feel of those words, the shape of the magic. Then, he casts the spell, and Dalamar's appearance changes. He still looks like himself, if you  _ know  _ who you're looking at, but not if you don't. The angles of his face soften, the shape of his eyes and ears change. He fills out a bit and gets a little taller. 

Looking put-upon, Dalamar sighs and draws up his hood. He doesn’t thank Raistlin for the spell, just gathers his things and follows him back up to the deck. 

“Try to be less graceful,” Raistlin says before they step back into plain view.

Dalamar frowns, but does as he’s told. He still doesn’t quite carry himself like a human, but the effect is odd enough for his heritage to be appropriately hidden. 

Pontigoth is a city, but a small one. Most of the cities of Ergoth are small- smaller than the cities Dalamar is used to on the continent, at least, smaller than Tarsis or Palanthas. It is diversely populated, elves, humans, and even ogres mingling freely in its ports and taverns. Every instinct in Dalamar’s body tells him to run for the hills and the dark paths of the trees, places no human or Ergoth-dwelling elf would know. He can feel the presence of the ghosts in the hills. They remember him. He wants to leave the city’s oppressive atmosphere and find them, but he follows Raistlin through the streets.

Raistlin makes every effort to avoid the main roads, but avoiding becomes impossible when it comes to the road out of the city-- Raistlin just tells Dalamar to stick close to him, hoping that nobody will want to look too closely at two black robes traveling with purpose. He’s right, for the most part. They catch a curious eye or two, but nothing past that. Black-robed wizards are uncommon, but not unheard of in the city. 

They make it out of the city, but the spell doesn't immediately dissolve, Raistlin holding onto the magic for just a while longer. “I believe,” he says, “ _ You _ will have to lead from here.

Dalamar lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and steps off the road, heading straight for the hills. They’re familiar to him. It hasn’t been that long since he was here, not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. 

As they walk, Raistlin keeps a subtle eye on Dalamar. When Dalamar had mentioned being here before, over a month ago, now, Raistlin hadn't put any thought into what this place might mean to him, and it's strange to see him so tense. “Why were you here?” he asks, eventually.

Dalamar shrugs. “Exile,” he says, “and then exile again.” 

“Ah,” Raistlin says, and that's the end of his inquiry into the matter.

They walk for the rest of the afternoon. Dalamar leads them to the base of the mountains on forgotten trails, deer paths and other, more magical routes. Every once in a while he stops and appears to listen to something, then takes a turn or finds another path and they continue. The further they get from Pontigoth the more Dalamar relaxes, though he takes care to stay on the eastern edge of the hills. The setting sun slips behind the mountains at their back, adding color to the misty grey sky for the first time in days, and Dalamar leads Raistlin to an open glen. “This would be as good a place to rest as any,” he says, “though no matter where we stop we will need stronger protection spells than usual.” 

“Help me with them, then; your wards are as good as mine.”

Dalamar blinks, pleased, and does so, adding an extra spell to ward off undead. Raistlin blinks at the spell, surprised and looks around him with newfound interest. So that's where that peculiar sensation of being  _ watched _ came from.

Sighing, Dalamar sinks down in the grass, graceful as ever. He pulls traveler’s bread and his canteen out of his pack, and watches Raistlin finish the wards. When Raistlin's done, he looks around once more before dropping down across from Dalamar.

He remembers when a spells like those could've wiped him out for a whole day. He’s fatigued, now, but it's remarkable how far he's come. He's usually too busy looking forward to remember to look back, but something about this adventure has him reminiscent.

Dalamar passes him a hunk of traveler’s bread, a faraway look on his face. He’s listening to something again. Raistlin accepts it, studying Dalamar closely. He’s curious, yes, but he doesn’t want to speak and pull Dalamar out of whatever strange thoughts are going through his mind.

“We should be safe tonight,” Dalamar says, pulling himself out of whatever reverie he was in. “There’s no one around for miles, except on the high road to Daltigoth. That’s about three miles that way,” he points. 

“And you know that... how?” Raistlin asks, genuinely curious.

Dalamar gestures. “The wind. I learned its language and that of the ghosts the last time I was here.”

Raistlin’s eyes widen, a little. “Did you?”

Dalamar nods. “This land is full of ghosts. Especially the ruins of the tower itself.”

“What do they say?” Raistlin asks.

“Many of them say nothing,” Dalamar replies, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Or at least, nothing of interest. Tragic tales of love lost and lives ended early. But some,” he grins, sharp and feral, “ah, some tell of magic, and violence, and power, and where wizards of old hid their most prized possessions.”

Raistlin leans in, hungry interest written plainly across his face.

“I have a ring I found near the blood sea of Istar that will turn the blood of my enemies to dust,” Dalamar says. “That was the first I found. The ghosts of the mages there told me how to use it. Ah, I wish I could find the ruins of the drowned city itself…..” He sighs. “No matter.” 

“Go on,” Raistlin says, when Dalamar stops talking.

“Hm?” Dalamar blinks. “Ah, yes. Well. I’m sure the ghosts in the mountains here will know where to find magic from the Age of Dreams.”

“How did you learn this?” Raistlin asks, “Their language, I mean?”

“I had a lot of time on my hands,” Dalamar says. “So I sat, and I listened.”

“I see. Interesting.”

Dalamar cocks his head at Raistlin. “I suppose.”

“I’m glad you came along,” Raistlin says. He only meant it to imply Dalamar’s usefulness, but the words take on a different meaning when they leave Raistlin's mouth. He stills.

Dalamar goes still as well, then gives Raistlin a soft smile. “I’m glad you took me,” he says. 

Raistlin's eyes widen and he nods. “Good.”

Dalamar leans in closer, close enough to touch. He puts his hand over Raistlin’s, fingers lightly tracing his knuckles. “How would you like to spend the evening, Shalafi?” he asks. 

Raistlin raises his eyebrow at the shift in Dalamar’s tone. “Hm? Oh, I thought we could go over our plans for tomorrow, review maps of the area,” he says, tone carefully innocent, the trace of humor in his eyes the only thing giving the joke away. 

Dalamar kisses Raistlin’s hand without breaking eye contact, smirking slightly. Raistlin's eyes track the movement closely.

“Did you have a different idea?” Raistlin asks.

“Mm,” says Dalamar, flipping Raistlin’s hand over and kissing his palm, then his wrist. “I did buy the supplies we needed in Gander,” he says against his skin. “It would be a shame to waste them.”

“So it would,” Raistlin purrs, reaching up and stroking along Dalamar's cheekbone with his free hand. Dalamar pulls Raistlin towards him, a hand winding around his waist. He grins. 

Raistlin's breath catches. His hand drops to Dalamar’s chin, tilting Dalamar's face up toward him, and he kisses him. Dalamar kisses back, pulling the hand he’s holding to his chest. 

Raistlin feels the steady beat of Dalamar's  heart and twists closer, deepening the kiss. He tangles a hand in Dalamar's robes and tugs him closer. Dalamar gasps, adjusts so he can straddle Raistlin, opens his mouth into the kiss. Raistlin hums and bites at Dalamar's lower lip while one arm winds around his waist. Dalamar gasps again and presses himself against Raistlin, pulling at his robes when they get in the way. 

Raistlin doesn’t do much to help, scraping his nails up Dalamar's thigh once the robes are tugged up and away. He does manage to find the clasp of Dalamar’s robes and unfasten them, kissing a line down Dalamar's chest once it's exposed to him. Dalamar shimmies out of the robes until they’re bunched around his waist, his fingers working to undo the clasp of Raistlin’s even as Raistlin’s mouth presses against his skin.

Raistlin hums and pulls away enough to give Dalamar space, eyeing him appreciatively as he works. Dalamar flushes and smirks, pulling Raistlin’s robes apart. Raistlin's smirks back, and then it turns into a grin and he pulls Dalamar in, kissing him again. Dalamar wraps his arms around Raistlin’s neck, leaning close. Raistlin is so warm, and the heat of his skin cuts through the chill still in the air. 

“The supplies you got,” Raistlin breathes, kissing Dalamar's lips, his cheek, his jaw. “Where?”

“My pack,” Dalamar replies, breathless. “The front pocket.” With a gesture, the pack comes flying over. 

“Such a frivolous use of magic,” Raistlin says. It's almost a scolding, but the desperate way his fingers run down Dalamar's back speak to the contrary.

Dalamar shives and gestures again, kissing Raistlin’s neck as he does. The vial he’d purchased flies from the pack into his hand. Raistlin snatches it from him, kissing him one more time before turning his attention to the vial. Dalamar leans back, watching. 

Raistlin reaches around Dalamar, popping the vial open and spreading a generous amount onto his fingers. He begins kissing Dalamar's neck, sucking hard enough to leaves a mark, and reaches around Dalamar.

He starts with one finger, slow and teasing, still sucking marks into Dalamar's neck. Dalamar shudders, arching into Raistlin and whimpering slightly. His hands grip Raistlin’s shoulders tight enough to leave marks. Raistlin sighs into Dalamar's neck and quirks his finger, switching the angle slightly. Dalamar bites back a cry. 

“Gods,” Raistlin breathes, grinding up against Dalamar, Dalamar's noises affecting him too much, too strongly to bear. He adds a second finger. Dalamar grinds down, panting. He rakes his fingernails over Raistlin’s shoulders. 

Raistlin crooks his fingers again, in the same way that made Dalamar cry out earlier. Dalamar buries a loud moan in Raistlin’s shoulder, his hips bucking. 

“Gods, I love the sounds you make,” Raistlin groans. He bites a mark into Dalamar's shoulder and adds a third finger.

Dalamar half-sobs, half-laughs into Raistlin’s hair, ending on a gasp as he throws his head back. 

Raistlin withdraws his fingers. His expression darkening hungrily, he orders, “Lay back."

Eyes wide and pupils blown large and dark, Dalamar does as he’s told. Raistlin climbs over him, kissing up his chest along the way, ending it by tangling a hand in Dalamar's hair and kissing him hard.

Dalamar melts under Raistlin’s touch, tipping his chin up to meet Raistlin. The grass of the glen is cold under his back, but comfortable enough. He’s too caught up in his partner to really care. 

Raistlin nudges Dalamar's legs apart with his knee and settles between them, tugging Dalamar's hair and licking into his mouth. Dalamar arches his entire body, lifting his legs around Raistlin’s waist. His hands flutter over Raistlin’s back. 

Moving his grip to the back of Dalamar's thighs, Raistlin lines himself up and pushes in. Dalamar’s breath catches and he groans, his nails bite in Raistlin’s skin. Raistlin curses under his breath and drops his forehead to rest against Dalamar's, and he pulls out, then thrusts back in, picking up a slow, deliberate pace. Dalamar gasps and grinds down to meet him, twisting his body in time. He fists a hand in Raistlin’s hair and pulls. 

Raistlin gasps and kisses Dalamar, his pace almost involuntarily quickening. Dalamar keens, his voice breaking on a particularly hard thrust. He keeps one hand in Raistlin’s hair and the other he places on his chest, fingers finding and teasing the soft skin around his nipple. 

Raistlin breaks the kiss and moans. Raistlin’s hands on the back of Dalamar’s thighs lift, guiding Dalamar into a new position with Dalamar’s ankles propped on Raistlin’s shoulders. With this new, deeper angle, Raistlin begins fucking Dalamar again, making a sound against Dalamar’s lips like a growl. Dalamar’s arms drop to prop himself up, and Raistlin hits a spot that makes him  _ scream _ . 

“Gods,” Raistlin gasps again, his pace getting slightly erratic. One of his hands finds Dalamar’s dick and strokes in time with his thrusts, all while peppering Dalamar’s face with kisses. 

Dalamar’s hips shudder, making the pace even more erratic. “Ah, gods,” he pants, “gods, Raistlin, fuck-“

Raistlin hums and closes his eyes, focusing on keeping his pace steady, on continuing this as long as Dalamar is able. His hand continues stroking Dalamar, twisting his wrist at the top and thrusting in time. Dalamar writhes, panting Raistlin’s name over and over.

“Dal,” Raistlin breathes, then cuts off with a harsh breath, losing his grip on his concentration in the face of Dalamar  _ like this _ , like this  _ because of him _ . “Dalamar.”

Dalamar opens his eyes and meets Raistlin’s gaze, then comes all at once, shuddering and twisting under Raistlin’s hands.

“ _ Ah _ ,” Raistlin gasps, and then he’s coming as well, slipping Dalamar’s legs off his shoulders so he can better lean in and kiss Dalamar, breathe him in, press his forehead to his and be as close as possible. Dalamar wraps shaking hands around Raistlin and pulls him close, holding him through the aftershocks. 

Raistlin kisses Dalamar wherever he can reach, shuddering against him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. They lay like that for a while, wrapped around each other in the cool grass, breathing. Dalamar kisses Raistlin’s face. 

Raistlin heaves a shaky sigh and rolls off Dalamar to lay beside him. Dalamar finds his hand and twines their fingers together. Raistlin brings Dalamar’s hand to his lips and kisses it, letting his eyes fall shut. He's struggling to catch his breath. Dalamar sits up enough to cradle Raistlin’s head in his arms, pulling him upright enough to open up his airways. He kisses the top of Raistlin’s head. 

Once Raistlin can breathe a little easier, he scoots up so he can tilt his head and kiss Dalamar back. Dalamar wraps his arms around Raistlin’s torso, warm and comfortable. 

“I’m glad you got those supplies in Gander,” Raistlin says, breathlessly.

“I am as well,” Dalamar replies, kissing Raistlin’s shoulder. 

Raistlin sits up further, twisting to look at Dalamar. He runs his fingers through Dalamar's hair, pushing it away from his face, and hums. Dalamar smiles, content to just look at him. 

Raistlin looks around them, at the night’s shadows. “It's not exactly the setting I'd imagined for doing  _ this _ again.”

Dalamar snorts. “I’m sure the local ghosts appreciate the eyeful.”

Raistlin stills and looks at Dalamar to see if he's joking.

Dalamar laughs. “I’m kidding. Well, mostly.”

Raistlin frowns out at the trees, as if he intends to scare the ghosts off with that alone. Dalamar laughs more, then leans in and, picking his cloak up off the ground, wraps it around him and Raistlin. Raistlin helps, tugging the cloak up over his shoulders and relaxing back against Dalamar. Dalamar wraps his arms around Raistlin and sighs into his hair, kisses his cheek. 

Raistlin tilts his face toward Dalamar when Dalamar kisses it, humming sleepily. His hand finds one of Dalamar's and twines their fingers together. In another frivolous use of magic, Dalamar gestures and their bedrolls leave his pack and unroll next to him. He takes the blankets and, swaddling them both, pulls Raistlin down to lay beside him. 

For once, Raistlin's too exhausted to comment on the magic, instead letting Dalamar do what he wants. He curls up against Dalamar when they're all settled, turning so he can wind an arm around Dalamar's waist. Dalamar fits himself close to Raistlin, letting himself relax in his warmth. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the dead, he drops off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crawls back in. hello. i'm very sorry for the long wait on this one. i've been moving and dealing with an influx of work related stress and i'm not done moving yet but i did finally catch a minute to post a chapter. 
> 
> notes:  
> 1\. dalamar's resolution to stay vulnerable is sort of my interpretation of a piece of characterization specifically from his backstory book, which i love, regardless of its inaccuracies and anachronistic issues. he says something about learning to accept and feel pain, and i just sort of... pushed it a step further. that book pretty much put the nail in the "dalamar is actually just a giant baby" coffin as far as i'm concerned  
> 2\. that same book said that dalamar hung out around daltigoth even when he wasn't supposed to. what a REBEL   
> 3\. the boys are into voyeurism, obviously
> 
> i'll try to be more consistent with chapters after this!


	9. THE BACK ROADS

Raistlin doesn't sleep much during the night, too aware now of the unseen spirits hanging around the edge of their camp. When he wakes in the morning, before Dalamar, he untangles himself from Dalamar and sets about making his tea.

Mist hangs low around them, the morning light pale and cold, and Raistlin sees shadows everywhere. Perhaps it's how close they are to their destination; it makes him anxious.

When Dalamar wakes soon after, the first thing he does is walk to the edge of the glen and listen carefully to the wind and the forest. He hasn’t bothered putting on his clothes yet, just stands bare in the morning mist until he’s heard what he wants. 

“We should be sure to keep to the mountains today,” he says to Raistlin. 

“Alright,” Raistlin says, making no attempt to be subtle about watching Dalamar.

Dalamar smirks and shrugs his robes on. “Ah, damp,” he says, briefly making a face. 

Raistlin snorts and begins packing their things. Dalamar helps, and then begins to release his wards. When he’s done, he looks at Raistlin. “Shall we?”

“Not yet,” Raistlin says. He approaches Dalamar, tangles a hand in his robes, and pulls him into a kiss. When he breaks it, he says, “ _ Now _ we can go. Lead the way.”

Dazed, Dalamar laughs, and he does. They follow a deer path further into the mountains. The way gets harder to follow with every step, and Dalamar often has to stop and listen and change their path. Despite this slow going, they make relatively good time. The ghosts around them can be seen, now, grey shapes at the corner of Dalamar’s vision. Some would call their presence evil, but he thinks of them in a way as friends. 

Raistlin stays silent most of the way, watching Dalamar's process as well as the ghosts around them with obvious interest, observing what he can. If he's annoyed at the pace and the delays, he doesn't show it. 

When they get closer to Daltigoth, Dalamar stops. “I think….. we should start searching around here,” he says. “We’re close to the ruins of the Tower. I recognize it.”

Raistlin looks around as if just noticing their surroundings. He takes a deep breath. “The sooner we find this cave, the better. Darkness hangs heavy in the air here.”

“I agree,” says Dalamar. “It is a dangerous area.” He sets down his pack and starts rifling through it, pulling out the journal after a minute or two. There’s a map about halfway through the pages, hastily scribbled and vague. Dalamar flips to it, studying it. “The tower is on this map, and the cave where the author seems to have hidden the gem is somewhere to the west of it. I believe we’re in the correct general area.” He looks up, squints at the mountains, and then points off to the northeast. “The ruins of the tower are over there, maybe a few miles off. If we travel north and west in a circular fashion, along the edge of the mountains, we should be able to look for signs.” He shuts the journal. “I will listen to the ghosts nearby, see if I can’t get them to direct us. There’s no point using locator spells, this place is a hotbed of magic. We wouldn’t be able to pick anything out.” 

Raistlin nods along, looking over Dalmar’s shoulder as he studies the book. He needn’t bother; he’s been through every page of that journal so many times he can close his eyes and recreate it. He  _ does _ close his eyes, and focuses on the strange magic all around him. It’s old magic, old and stale. “The spells our author put on his hiding place-- if you find there’s anywhere you  _ don’t _ wish to explore, that is where we must go.”

Dalamar nods and puts the journal back in his pack. “We do need to watch for undead, though. Shard wights often look like normal humans.” 

Raistlin nods. He’d researched the area before coming, of course, and the dangers that could be expected. He double checks his spell components, several defensive and offensive spells ready, waiting at the tip of his tongue. With an amused quirk of his lips, he says, “I believe I can tell the difference between humans and the undead.”

Dalamar sighs and bites his tongue. “I know you can. I was more reminding myself.” 

“Let’s go,” Raistlin says, laying a hand on Dalamar’s arm as he passes him, heading in the direction Dalamar had pointed earlier. He keeps a close eye out as he does, watching for any signs of movement and casting a quick charm to detect magically-laid traps on his path.

Dalamar follows, keeping his eyes peeled in the gloom. He watches the tracks around them for any sign of disturbance or lack of such, something magically  _ off _ or somewhere animals avoid. He sees nothing. For the first half of the afternoon they search to no avail, finding no traps, no changes in the landscape. The sun has started to descend in the west when Dalamar calls to Raistlin, setting down his pack and staring up at the wall of the mountain to their left.

Raistlin joins him immediately, feeling the first flurry of excitement after hours of disappointment. “What is it?”

“There are spirits here. I would talk to them,” Dalamar says, frowning up the hill at the line of trees growing from the rocks. 

Raistlin raises an eyebrow. So far, he hasn’t heard Dalamar do any talking back, only listening. “By all means,” he says.

Dalamar bounds up the hill, scrabbling on his hands and knees when the way is too steep to walk. It’s a short way up, and when he reaches the top he stands on one of the rocks and brushes himself off, peering around. He then sits down facing the trees, closes his eyes, and reaches out with his instincts, waiting for the cold presence of the dead. 

He sits like that for a while before anything happens, but then he hears footsteps on the edge of sound, feels a cold hand pass across his face. The language the spirit uses is archaic, but Dalamar understands. It speaks of a love of magic, a destroyed tower. It says nothing of hidden artifacts. Dalamar pushes, pressing against what remains of its mind, asking the same things over and over. It doesn’t know. Discouraged, Dalamar sighs and turns to leave, but then the ghost mentions the tiles of the Heartroom, sadly, and he starts paying attention again. 

Twenty minutes later, he’s sliding back down the slope of the hill to where Raistlin waits, excitement evident on his face. Raistlin sits on the path, now, clearly impatient. He forgets his impatience when he sees Dalamar coming, when he notices Dalamar’s expression, and sits up eagerly.

Dalamar stops and brushes himself off. “Shalafi,” he says, breathless. “What do you know about the Tower of High Sorcery at Daltigoth?”

“A great deal,” Raistlin says with a wry smile. “Why do you ask?”

“The tiles of the Heartroom,” Dalamar says in a rush. “Imbued with magical energy- there are many of them strewn about the countryside here that the Conclave couldn’t find,” he continues, “but you know that, and I think they may explain the-” here he starts to rummage through his pack again- “power source that the author mentioned-” he pulls out the journal- “using to keep his protections going after he is gone-” he opens it to the page describing the hiding of the object- “and I think that we can track them.” 

Raistlin wraps a hand in Dalamar’s robes and pulls him in for a kiss. Dalamar makes a noise that in someone less dignified may be described as a “squeak”. Raistlin snickers into the kiss and breaks it, snatches the journal out of Dalamar’s hands, and begins looking the open pages over with newfound interest. “I see,” he says. 

Slightly dazed, Dalamar blinks and tries to catch his breath. “I,” he starts, “I was thinking that if we perhaps set a spell to point us to the strongest magical source in the area, it would at least be a start.” 

Raistln nods and, without any further ado, casts the spell. Sparks shoot out from his hand, arching and drifting away out of sight, leaving a faint glow in its wake. Raistlin takes Dalamar’s hand and follows it.

Dalamar tries to stay focused on their goal and aware of their surroundings, but he keeps finding himself thinking of Raistlin’s hand against his, the sweetness of that gesture. He knows Raistlin  _ likes _ him, in his own way. Every once in a while he wonders if there might be something more. 

Raistlin stops, suddenly, making Dalamar almost run into him. Further down their path stands what Raistlin assumes is a Shard Wight, though it doesn't look like any human  _ he’s _ ever seen. It has the approximate shape of one, but it looks more like a nightmare, with broken limbs and patches of skin burned away to reveal bone and sinew underneath. It turns its pale eyes on the two of them, its gaze  _ hungry _ , and starts forward.

Dalamar sighs. “ _ That’s _ annoying. Shalafi, do you want to, or should I?” he gestures.

“You do it,” Raistlin says, stepping out of his way, “I need to preserve my strength.”

“Of course,” Dalamar says, and raises his hands. He wants to test the wight’s strength, first, so he calls down a bolt of lightning with a sharp song, watching carefully as it hits. 

The wight staggers under the shock and collapses to the ground; the smell of seared and rotting flesh fills the area. The thing weakly begins crawling toward them, slower, even, than before.

Dalamar makes a face, shooting off another bolt of lightning from his fingertip. It hits the rotten thing with a sizzle, burning the flesh from its bones. It doesn’t move again. Carefully, Dalamar steps over to it and bends to root through the burned carcass. 

It's Raistlin's turn to make a face, now, looking off down their path, which still glows slightly, rather than at Dalamar. “What are you doing?”

Dalamar picks something up out of the corpse and stands, triumphant. “A shard,” he says, with a dramatic little flourish. 

Raistlin forgets his disgust and plucks the small thing out of Dalamar's fingers. He can feel the magical energy thrumming through it as he examines it. “Very good,” he says to Dalamar.

Dalamar smirks.

Raistlin doesn’t see it; he's too busy wiping bits of charred flesh off the shard. Still studying it, almost seemingly more toward the shard than Dalamar, he says, “The singing was interesting.”

“Hm?” Dalamar says, staring back down the path. “I learned it here, actually.”

“Did you?” Raistlin asks, pulling a rag out of his bag and wiping off the shard. He looks at Dalamar, now. “I thought it was a Kagonesti technique.”

“It is,” Dalamar says. “I spent some time with them while we were exiled to Ergoth.” 

Raistlin nods and tucks the shard away into one of his pockets. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” says Dalamar, falling into step beside him. They follow the glow of Raistlin’s spell a while longer, till the afternoon sun turns to the soft glow of evening. Raistlin scowls up at the sky as they walk, annoyed. 

Dalamar watches him out of the corner of his eye, the rest of his attention still fixed on the woods around them. Every once in a while he sees a dark shape on the periphery of his vision, and thinks about how strong the wards around their camp will have to be tonight. 

“I may have to recast the spell soon,” Raistlin eventually says, seeming to pull himself from his thoughts. He refers to the fading glow of the charm’s light. “If we continue on without success like this.”

Dalamar sighs. “Perhaps. I’m sorry, I thought this would work better than just walking around, but- oh?” He stops, blinking in the fading light. There’s a figure sitting on the side of the path ahead of them. Dalamar draws up his hood, carefully, hoping that whoever it is hasn’t seen his face. 

The figure turns when they get closer to it, revealing itself to be a comely young woman, her blonde hair dirty and her face streaked with tears. She starts towards them, calling out. 

“Do you know the way to Daltigoth?” she asks as they approach, then laughs slightly, rubbing at her eyes. “I’m afraid I’m lost.” 

Raistlin glances at Dalamar, curious to see his reaction.

Dalamar pulls his hood down and sighs. “Ah, well. Shall I take care of this one too?” 

“Do you feel up to it?” Raistlin asks, staring at the creature impassively. “I don’t mind stepping in.”

“I feel perfectly fine,” Dalamar says. 

The woman- the wight- is looking at them both incredulously. “What are you going to do to me?” she asks, her voice scared. 

Dalamar sighs and moves to call down lightning again, but as he raises his hands there’s a blur and the woman has both her hands on his arm. Her touch is cold, freezing cold, and the cold starts to spread up his body even as he tries to wrench his arm away. He can’t. The wight grins and there’s blood on her teeth. She smells of rot. 

Raistlin reacts quickly, without thinking, his mouth already forming the spidery language of magic before he can think through the energy casting this spell will cost. He fans his hands out in front of him, thumbs pressed together, and as he speaks the last words of the spell, he feels the energy release in a gust of wind, wind that passes through Dalamar but hits the wight dead on, making her skin turn mottled and crack like brittle clay. 

She screams, the sound angry, and shatters, turning to dust only to be blown away by the wind. Raistlin releases the magic and staggers back. Dalamar falls to the ground in a heap, breathing hard. He clutches his arm to his chest and stares up at the darkening sky with wide eyes. 

“Are you hurt?” Raistlin asks from where he stands, his hands braced against his knees as he struggles to regain his breath. Banishing the undead is no easy task, and there are much easier ways Raistlin could have gone about that. Less, of course, that wouldn’t have hurt Dalamar in the process.

Dalamar closes his eyes for a second, trying to calm down and assess his situation. He pushes up his right sleeve and checks his arm. There’s a black mark where the wight touched him. Necrotic damage, he thinks. “I’m mostly just drained,” he tells Raistlin, pushing himself up from the ground. His right arm won’t support his weight, and he almost falls, glaring at the offending appendage irritably. 

Raistlin sighs and grabs Dalamar’s arm, tugging the sleeve up before Dalamar can protest. He studies the mark critically. “I may be able to treat this, but not here,” he says, “Not until we’re back at the tower.” With a wry almost-smile, he adds, “I suppose the good news is that it won’t get any worse before then, even if it won’t get any better, either.”

Dalamar sighs, flexing his fingers back and forth with a slight wince. “It’s not bad,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

Raistlin nods. He drops to sit down on the ground and shuts his eyes, tilting his face up toward the sky. “I need a minute before we go on,” he says, and then he starts to cough.

Dalamar nods, waiting. He needs a minute himself. “Do you need your tea?” he asks, gingerly rubbing his arm. 

Raistlin shakes his head and, when the coughing eventually subsides, says, “No time.”

Dalamar holds out a hand to him. Raistlin takes it and lets Dalamar pull him up. 

“What now, do you think?” Raistlin asks. Whatever dim light from Raistlin’s spell there had been before the wight was gone, now.

Dalamar looks at the path, the darkness of the sky, and then at Raistlin, studying him closely. He hasn’t let go of his hand. “If I may be honest, Shalafi, I think we should stop for the night. You and I are both tired and we will have to ward the camp even more strongly now that the wights are around. I wouldn’t want to push it.”

Raistlin sighs and scowls despite knowing Dalamar’s right. “This is as good a place as any, then.”

Dalamar nods and leads them off the path, to a space where the trees clear ever so slightly, just enough for two men to set up a fire and lay down. He starts putting up wards, feeling the drain on his energy more than he otherwise would have. The wight had done a number on him.

Raistlin helps with the wards, layering intricate, potent webs of protection over Dalamar’s. He looks ready to collapse by the end of it, his staff the only thing keeping him from doing so. Dalamar is exhausted as well, falling gracefully to sit on the ground when the wards are done. He conjures witchfire for its meager heat and studies Raistlin in the light it gives off.

Raistlin sits as well, much less gracefully. “I'm fine,” he says to Dalamar, when he feels his stare. His eyes are shut, though, and he's rubbing his shoulders, which are tense and sore.

Dalamar nods and pulls out his spellbook, leafing through to find and relearn the spells he’d used during the day. He’s thinking as he does.

Raistlin sits for a while like that, and then he sets about making his tea.

“Shalafi,” Dalamar starts, then stops, frowning. 

“Hm?” Raistlin says without looking at him.

Dalamar pauses. “Nevermind.”

Raistlin looks up at him sharply and studies him a moment before shrugging. “If you insist,” he says.

Dalamar nods in acknowledgement, then resumes staring at his spellbook, worry tugging at his face. Raistlin gets up and moves to sit beside Dalamar instead, leaning against Dalamar's side. Dalamar wraps an arm around him- the damaged one- and sighs, leaning back into him. Raistlin’s warmer than usual, but not in a feverish way. Still, he can’t help the worry that claws at his throat. He’s all too aware of how fragile and short-lived humans are, and it terrifies him.

It doesn't take Raistlin long to drop off to sleep, a deep sleep without dreams. He snores lightly beside Dalamar, head resting on Dalamar's shoulders. His last waking thoughts are of how warm Dalamar is and how, really, he doesn't much mind the delay.

Dalamar stays awake for a long time, holding Raistlin and thinking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'm back again. wow, this month has been... absolutely wild. i am so tired. please let september give me a break. that would be amazing. 
> 
> 1\. shard wights... shard wights.... i was going thru dnd books and it seemed like a good idea


	10. THE GEM

Apart from some creaky joints and sore muscles, Raistlin feels much better in the morning. He wakes before Dalamar, again, and sets about to packing up their little camp, humming as he does. Then he sits and reads his spellbook until Dalamar wakes, looking up to study him every so often. He finds his concentration drifting, which annoys him to no end.

Dalamar wakes slowly, as if he slept badly. He yawns and stretches, blinking his eyes open when he finds himself alone, then rolling over to look at Raistlin. 

Raistlin looks up when Dalamar wakes, giving him a tired smile. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Dalamar replies, sighing. He pushes himself up and runs a hand through his hair. 

“How do you feel?” Raistlin asks, closing his spellbook and stretching.

“Fine,” Dalamar says. He was worried about something the night before, he knows he was, but he isn’t quite awake enough to delve back into it. 

“I’m glad,” Raistlin says, then clarifies with, “We have a long day ahead of us.”

Dalamar sighs and starts to pack up his bedroll. “Yes,” he says. “I feel as if we’re getting close.” 

Raistlin nods and looks off at the trees around them. “I’m sure we’ll find it today,” he says fiercely, as if willing it to be true. 

Dalamar wants to kiss him, but he holds back. “I believe that spell of yours was the right thing to do,” he says. “It definitely led us to two of the shards. We’ll just have to widen the area of the search somehow.”

Raistlin waves a hand dismissively. “I changed the spell already. Combined it with another.”

Dalamar’s eyes light up. “Perfect.”

Raistlin shrugs. “It wasn’t difficult. Are you ready?”

Dalamar nods and falls into step with him. Before they leave, Raistlin casts the spell. It looks different than before, a little more vibrant, the magic of it thrumming with nervous energy, whether from the fervor of its caster or the strength of its target is unclear. Dalamar watches it with a faint smirk, still excited. When they reach the path they’d been on yesterday, Dalamar reaches out and takes Raistlin’s hand. 

Raistlin looks down at their hands, startled, but doesn’t pull his away. 

Full of anxious, childish triumph, Dalamar smirks. Raistlin doesn’t miss Dalamar’s smirks, his barely contained excitement, and he glances at Dalamar, amused, giving his hand a light squeeze before pulling him off down the path.

The spells is strong, and the path it leads them on runs up into the mountains, steep and rocky and dotted with pines. Dalamar hears more and more of heartroom tiles from the wind and the ghosts, stories of hidden power and widespread destruction. They’re almost above the ruins of the tower now. Dalamar can see them if he looks to his right, far off through the trees below them. He can also see Daltigoth, and hopes that Daltigoth can’t see him. 

Raistlin requires Dalamar’s help once or twice, when the path gets too steep and the tug of the spell he’s holding on to gets too insistent. It glows brighter the closer they get to the end. Raistlin doesn’t notice Daltigoth. He doesn’t notice the tower. He barely notices Dalamar. He just follows the cord of light, eager to reach their destination.

The light stops at a sheer rock wall. Dalamar walks up to it and presses a hand to it flat, listening.  Raistlin stands back and studies the wall. “Clever,” he murmurs.

Dalamar sighs. “I hear nothing.”

“It's not that kind of magic,” Raistlin says, vaguely, still studying the wall.

“Is it a puzzle?” Dalamar muses. “I wonder if there’s a key.” He speaks a few words of magic and nothing happens, then tries whistling a Kagonesti spell. Again, nothing. 

“Dalamar,” Raistlin says, his voice a command, “Move out of the way.”

Dalamar does, almost tripping in his haste. Dalamar is scarcely out of range before Raistlin closes his eyes and begins mouthing the words of a spell. He speaks softly at first, the wind carrying Raistlin's voice or Raistlin's voice, his magic, calling the wind up from nothing-- it's impossible to tell which came first. 

He speaks louder, raises his arms, and all at once, there's a crack like thunder and the rock wall explodes inward, in toward the cave that was hidden behind it.

Raistlin drops his arms and sags back a little, sitting on the large boulder that happens to be behind him. 

Dalamar starts towards the opening of the cave, taking a second to cast a magic detecting spell aimed at discovering any immediate traps. There are none, so he steps in, then stops when he realizes Raistlin isn’t behind him. He looks back towards the other wizard, an expression of some sort of pain crossing his face briefly. He walks back to Raistlin. 

“I wish there was something I could  _ do _ for you,” he says, unable to hide the intensity in his voice. “If you could take my strength, my life, and use it to supplement your own in times like these, I would gladly give it.”

Raistlin scowls and pushes himself to his feet, whether he’s ready to or not. He’s long given up on retaining any sort of pride when it comes to his physical body. He’s used to being frail and fragile and sick, he’s had it pointed out his whole life. So why is it that  _ Dalamar _ bringing it up stings so badly?

Whatever the answer, Raistlin tries to hide how much that spell affected him and joins Dalamar at the entrance to the cave, not looking at him when he says. “No one asked you to.” It’s not harsh, but not gentle, either.

“I know,” Dalamar replies. “I’m offering.” 

“I’m  _ declining _ ,” Raistlin says, voice getting cold. “I’m capable of stronger magic than  _ that _ ,” he says, sneering at the bits of blasted rocks lying around.

Dalamar bristles. “I  _ know _ you are,” he says. “I just- nevermind.” Shoving his arms into his sleeves, he starts back towards the cave. 

Raistlin brushes his hair away from his face and sighs. “Very well,” he says, following Dalamar into the cave and ignoring the exhaustion he feels creeping up.

Brief though it was, their argument leaves Dalamar feeling restless and irritable. He trudges ahead of Raistlin without looking back for some time, occasionally casting a magical detection spell. Otherwise, he keeps his eyes on the path in front of them, wondering why he feels like something has gone horribly wrong. 

Raistlin follows, his eyes on Dalamar until he remembers he’s supposed to be looking out for danger. The deeper they go into this cave, the darker it gets, until only the pale light of Raistlin’s staff lights his way. He begins to feel uneasy, like there’s something lurking just at the corner of his eye. He feels like he’s being watched.

“Dalamar,” he calls, cautiously.

“I feel it,” Dalamar replies, waiting for Raistlin to catch up with him. His eyes are wide, staring out into the darkness that the light of Raistlin’s staff doesn’t touch. A shadow moves in the corner of his vision and he spins, but there’s nothing there. 

Raistlin joins him and keeps walking, eyes fixed forward and mind racing. He’s not sure what their pursuer  _ is _ , yet, and without knowing what it is, he can’t know how to stop it.

“Ah,” says Dalamar. “Shalafi, it’s-“ he starts, but then several things happen at once. There’s a flash of movement in the corner of their vision as something comes rocketing towards them, dashing past them on the left. Dalamar pushes Raistlin out of the way and in a shout of magic sets off a burst of fire, illuminating a large, cat-like form with far too many limbs, at least the size of Raistlin himself. And at the same time, something unseen knocks bodily into Dalamar, who stumbles and gasps. His hand goes to his side and comes away bloody, pain racing through him. 

The fireball fizzles out where the cat was without appearing to hit it, leaving the mages with only the light of Raistlin’s staff once more. Without checking if Dalamar’s okay, Raistlin throws up a barrier of protection between where he stands with Dalamar and where he last saw the cat. He hears, more than sees, the cat run into the barrier, a ripple of electricity shooting up through the invisible wall at the impact.

Dalamar stares, watching the image of the cat hit the barrier several feet shy of where the electricity starts. It’s huge and black, many-legged with burning, fiery eyes. Two tentacles extend from its shoulders back into the air, waving angrily as it snarls and pulls itself back to its feet, its open mouth revealing many teeth. 

“An illusion,” he says. “Whatever it is, it’s projecting an illusion.”

“What do you mean?” Raistlin asks sharply, already preparing another spell. He waits to cast it until he hears Dalamar’s answer.

“The cat,” Dalamar says, annoyed at how hard it is for him to catch his breath. “I see it. It’s- the illusion, I see the cat several feet away from where it actually hit your spell. Can’t trust your eyes. My eyes, I mean.” 

Raistlin curses. That makes things more difficult. He whispers the words of his new spell and braces himself, his eyes never leaving the place where the barrier should be. Bright, multi-colored fire pools in his hands and weaves around him, creating its own sort of barrier. As he casts this new spell, he feels the barrier peter out.

The creature takes the opportunity to leap at him. In the light of the fire, Raistlin can see Dalamar’s right; while it  _ looks _ as if the creature is darting around him, the fire lashes out at the creature’s  _ real _ location without Raistlin needing to direct it. He can’t see how well the fire hits it, but a yelp and a snarl echoes through the hall.

Lightning in his hands, Dalamar follows close on Raistlin’s footsteps, hurling a lance of crackling electricity towards where the fire just hit. There’s a yelp, but it seems as if the lance glances off the cat instead of striking true. The creature Dalamar can see limps in a circle and turns around, dashing back towards them. There’s a glint of something at the cat’s neck. Dalamar almost doesn’t throw up a shield in time, so entranced is he by the shine. 

“Shalafi!” he calls. “The gem- its collar!”

Raistlin’s eyes widen, for just a moment, and then he reclaims his concentration before the fire of his spell goes out. At a sharp command from its master, the fire lashes out like a whip, striking about ten feet to the right of the cat’s image. The cat’s image jumps to the left, and the real creature apparently seems to get out of the way in time, Raistlin’s fire just hitting Dalamar’s shield.

The shield holds, and Dalamar, wincing, stands back to back with Raistlin, watching the cat prowl around them. “It’s hurt,” he says, “but not enough.”

“I know,” Raistlin says. The fire flickers. He can feel exhaustion pulling at him. “I don’t know how to get at it without risking hurting you, too.”

“I can take care of myself,” Dalamar says. “Just hit the cat!” He strides forwards and sends another burst of magic towards the creature, illuminating the wall behind it with a mixture of fire and lightning. Tiles hang there, covering the wall in a strange script that appears to twist and move in the flickering light of the spell. Dalamar growls when the lightning only barely hits the creature again, his eyes flicking to the side to check the illusion’s reaction. It’s when his concentration is broken that the creature attacks, and suddenly he feels an invisible force barrel heavily into him, knocking him onto the ground. But just like that, it’s gone. 

Sick realization sweeps over Dalamar. “Don’t  _ play  _ with your food,” he hisses, struggling back to his feet. No longer back to back with Raistlin, he feels open and vulnerable. 

Finally, Raistlin’s able to get a look at the gem, the reason for this whole journey, when the cat stops and faces them both. Raistlin gets a strange, fervent look in his eye and he smirks. It’s angry and feral, and the fire in his hands flares into strange, swirling fireballs. He lobs one at the cat, to the right of the projected image. When it darts out of the way, he throws the second, and that one  _ definitely _ hits, if the pained snarl and sudden smell of burning fur is any indication. It leaps and barrels into another of Dalamar’s shields, knocking it backwards into the wall. Dalamar takes a moment to catch his breath, the pain in his side stabbing and growing hotter by the minute. He presses a hand over it, distracted by Raistlin’s facial expression. They’re so close. They’re  _ so  _ close. 

He steps back and drops his shield, magic ready and crackling in his hands, and the thing pounces. 

It lands heavily on Dalamar, and as it makes to run away, pull back and taunt him again, he sinks his ball of lightning into its side. The cat yowls in his face and its jaws close tight on his shoulder, and the hand that was scrabbling for the jewel at its collar drops, convulsing, to the floor. Dalamar thinks he might be screaming. He can’t feel anything but burning pain and heavy weight, and all the words of magic he knows slip from his mind like sand through an hourglass.

“ _ Dalamar!” _ Raistlin calls, but it’s drowned out by the sound of Dalamar screaming. Raistlin’s spell flickers out immediately, plunging them all into darkness, and Raistlin almost collapses under the sudden exhaustion. He would have, probably, if it wasn’t for Dalamar. 

Raistlin knows a spell he can use, doesn’t have time to think of others-- there’s too much risk, too much chance of hitting Dalamar or destroying the gem. This will minimize that risk. Dalamar’s strong, stronger than this creature, at this point, with all the damage they’ve done to it. Dalamar will hold on. If he doesn’t, well...Raistlin doesn’t want to think about it. Dalamar  _ did _ tell Raistlin not to worry about him.

He begins chanting the spell, immediately feeling the cold seep into his bones. It’s a dark spell, one he’s only studied, never performed, meant to drain the life from any living thing within the spellcaster’s range, starting with what’s closest to him-- the cat. He can feel the magic leaving him, but can’t see what effect-- if any-- it’s having.

The cat’s grip on Dalamar relaxes as waves of magic pass over them. Dalamar feels cold, then hot, then cold again, and the beast above him is only getting heavier. He can’t breathe. It’s when he starts to feel lightheaded that he realizes what Raistlin is doing, and why. 

He thinks of the expression on Raistlin’s face, that singleminded fixation on his prize. Dalamar had come to terms with the fact that Raistlin would willingly cut him down if he stood between the archmage and his goal, sacrifice him like an offering in a ritual. He’d deemed the risk worth it, and now, faced with the prospect of this actually happening, he finds himself full of panic, not acceptance. 

He doesn’t  _ want _ to die. He doesn’t want to leave. He wants to learn, he wants to see Sylvanesti again, he wants to tell Raistlin- Raistlin, who is even now killing him slowly and softly- how he feels, how much Raistlin has done for him. 

His limbs start to go numb. The cat collapses completely onto him, its thrashing tails still, its heartbeat gone. In a way, Dalamar thinks through the haze of panic and fear, this is a kindness on Raistlin’s part. It’s an easy death. Dalamar feels nothing but cold, and he lets the waiting darkness take him. 

When Dalamar’s screaming cuts out, Raistlin continues with the spell. When he hears, presumably, the heavy weight of the cat collapsing, he continues with the spell. He waits a moment longer, to be entirely sure, and only then does he stop. He calls to his staff in the darkness and it finds him, giving him light and support as he stumbles over to Dalamar.

The cat’s projectory illusion is gone now, and Raistlin can see the full length, of it collapsed on top of Dalamar, it’s maw stained with Dalamar’s blood. While he may have no strength for spells left, Raistlin has enough physical strength to shove the cat off of Dalamar, even if he has to throw all of his weight into doing so. The glint of the cat’s collar catches in the light of Raistlin’s staff, but he ignores it for now, collapsing beside Dalamar and feeling for a pulse.

A wave of panic washes over Raistlin when he can’t find one, but wait, there it is-- it’s faint, impossibly faint. He has a large bite wound in his shoulder, and a second along his side-- Raistlin stares at the side wound, eyes wide. He’s not sure when that happened, but it must have been a while. It explains why the spell affected Dalamar so badly. The worst thing is Dalamar’s face. It’s Raistlin’s curse to see the passage of time, and he’s sure he’ll never forget the sight of young, beautiful Dalamar, usually untouched by time, colored with decay.

He may be alive now, but just barely, and he isn’t going to survive long. Again, Raistlin’s eyes catch on the gem. He rises to his knees and leans over Dalamar to snatch the collar off the cat. Once it’s in his hand, Raistlin feels the strange warmth of the stone flood through him, reviving some of his energy, and he knows its true. Everything he read in the journal. This gem could lift the curses on his eyes and skin, it could heal his body, give him strength.

He looks at Dalamar, and his grip on the stone tightens involuntarily. He knows what he  _ should _ do, and he knows what he  _ wants _ to do. He should take the stone with him, use its strength to heal himself, use one of the tiles they found to teleport out of this place. He knows this is what he  _ should _ want, too. He’d get over Dalamar’s death eventually. They really only got close over these last few weeks, and Raistlin’s lost many people closer to him. He got over  _ those  _ deaths. People die. It is the way of things. Raistlin, with his curse, knows that better than anyone.

He  _ should  _ want that which will give him all he’s ever wanted. Strength, the chance to be a  _ whole _ person, power. It’s  _ not _ what he wants, though, and the thought that  _ all he’s ever wanted  _ is no longer a top priority terrifies him. Really, it’s all the more reason he should take the stone and leave, but when he thinks about doing that, about getting up and walking out, leaving Dalamar here to die, he can’t move. When he thinks about going on after this, going back to his tower alone, he feels cold.

No, he couldn’t get over Dalamar’s death. He would never forgive himself. He would never leave behind this moment.

Before he can change his mind, Raistlin pulls the journal out of his backpack with shaky hands, props his staff against his shoulder and flips through the pages until he finds the one. He reads over the instructions the author provided, presses the stone to Dalamar’s heart, and says the words of magic needed to use its power.

The stone grows hot beneath his hands, and Raistlin feels a strange power pulse through him. He knows it’s just feedback, a small fraction of the magic that must be pulsing through Dalamar right now. Raistlin watches with the wide eyes as the decay marring Dalamar’s face recedes, as the skin around his shoulder wound heals itself up.

When Dalamar stirs, Raistlin releases a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the relief that floods through him so overwhelming he could cry. He lifts his hand and sees that the stone is nothing but dust, but the slight sting of regret he feels is nothing to the relief. It’s left a small scar on Dalamar’s skin, Raistlin notices as he pulls Dalamar into his arms, hoping that he wakes up.

Dalamar gasps, his eyes flying open, and grabs onto Raistlin’s arm, looking up at him without any recognition. He blinks and realization dawns, his eyes going wide. “Raistlin?”

Up until this point, Raistlin was only distantly aware of how much Dalamar meant to him. He knew, in a way,  _ why _ he was sacrificing this stone to bring him back. He knew what it was, he knew the word, he just didn't let himself think it. When Dalamar wakes up and looks at him, says his name, Raistlin can't deny it any more. There's no word to describe this relief, this joy, this worry, other than  _ love _ .

He decides to deal with that more later.

“Welcome back,” he manages. He means it to sound put-upon, maybe even annoyed, but there's no hiding his relief.

“Thank you,” Dalamar breathes. His voice is weak. He hurts all over. “I thought… I thought I was dead for sure.” He tries to sit up and finds he can’t, his entire body protesting.

“Of course not,” Raistlin says, then, before Dalamar can ask more questions, “How do you feel?”

“Horrible,” Dalamar almost whispers. “Sore.” He sighs and relaxes back into Raistlin’s arms, only to jolt back up and clutch at his robes again. “The gem?”

Raistlin’s gaze drops to the scar on Dalamar’s chest.

Dalamar follows his gaze, his eyes widening even more. “You… But…. Raistlin, you-” he stutters.

Raistlin shrugs. “We have the research notes. We’ll just have to figure out how to make another.”

Dalamar blinks, feeling exhaustion creeping over him again. “Ah,” he says.

Raistlin frowns and cups Dalamar’s cheek in his hand, then leans down to kiss him. Dalamar feels Raistlin’s lips on his even as the darkness threatens to take him again and sighs, kissing back with some effort. He feels safe. He feels like he shouldn’t feel safe. He feels worn and tired and he wants to stay in Raistlin’s arms even if they’re the most dangerous place on the planet.

“Rest,” Raistlin says. Then, a whispered promise, “I’ll be here.”

Dalamar does.

Once Dalamar is asleep, and Raistlin is sure that that’s all it is,  _ sleep _ , Raistlin looks around. The cat was a creature born of magic, and without the gem sustaining it anymore, its body has disappeared, leaving them truly alone in this place. They’ll have to move, later, at least further out of this cave, but for now, it will do.

Raistlin casts some light protection spells, all that he can manage, exhausted as he is. The gem restored  _ some _ of his energy, before he used it to heal Dalamar, but he’s sure that if he casts even one more spell, he’ll be no help to  _ either  _ of them. He rearranges their things so Dalamar will be more comfortable and settles in to wait.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, means to keep watch over Dalamar, but somehow he falls asleep anyway, resting against Dalamar’s chest and listening to his even breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks. sorry for the long wait. life once again caught up with me and i forgot i was even writing fanfiction, that's how bad it was. i'm officially a tattoo artist (no longer an apprentice! finally!) as of a few months ago, i might be moving shops, em is moving in with me, there was work drama... so much fucking work drama. anyway, hopefully things will calm down and i'll get the rest of this posted, but there are a lot of changes happening at work and in life these days so... i can't really promise anything other than that i will try! 
> 
> anyway. chapter notes:  
> 1\. the monster used in this one is a displacer beast! fudged some stuff to make it flow, as you do, but i took the idea from another dnd handbook. big kitty 10/10 would pet  
> 2\. in revisiting this months later i remembered how much i loved writing dalamar. i missed dalamar  
> 3\. i just really like beating up dalamar  
> 4\. love to see some emotions   
> 5\. sorry my notes are pretty lackluster i am... fucking exhausted. might be fighting off some sort of cold? unsure, but i want sleep


	11. THE CAVE

It’s dark when Dalamar awakes, so he thinks it’s night. He doesn’t know where he is or why he’s in pain, and he’s apparently alone. This scares him. He stirs with a whimper, not quite awake enough to make sense of the rocks against his back or the ache in his side. 

Raistlin’s awake and at his side in an instant, resting a gentle hand on Dalamar’s shoulder to let him know he's here. Dalamar leans into his hand, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. When he can see, he notices that they’re still in the same cave, and it’s probably been no more than a day or so since he fell asleep. 

Part of Dalamar wonders why Raistlin hasn’t just left him there. The other part of him reaches for Raistlin’s warm hand and holds it close.

With his other hand, Raistlin brushes Dalamar’s hair back from his face. He spent most of the day sitting around, watching over Dalamar. It's a long time to waste when running from your own thoughts.

“Good morning,” Dalamar croaks.

Raistlin snorts. “Good  _ afternoon _ , I believe.”

“Ah,” Dalamar replies. “I seem to have lost track of time.”

“Perhaps a little,” Raistlin says, trying not to smile.

“You’re still here,” Dalamar says, looking up at Raistlin.

Raistlin frowns, brows furrowing. “Yes. I said I would be.”

“I’m glad,” Dalamar sighs.

Raistlin hums and continues running his hands through Dalamar’s hair. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was mauled by a large cat,” Dalamar mumbles, “but it’s not that bad.”

“No,” Raistlin agrees, “It’s not. You’ll be alright; it may just take some time.” Raistlin hesitates, then adds, “I’m glad.”

Dalamar hesitates, then looks up at Raistlin again, something in his face open and vulnerable.

Raistlin’s hand stills in Dalamar’s hair. His eyes have adjusted to the light a little in the last day, but only enough to tell Dalamar’s looking at him. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Dalamar says. He’s tired and can feel himself falling asleep again. He wants Raistlin to hold him, but isn’t sure how to ask.

Raistlin looks at Dalamar-- or, rather, the shape of Dalamar in the darkness-- like he doesn’t quite believe him, knowing Dalamar will be able to see the expression.

Dalamar sighs. “I’m glad you’re glad,” he says, sleepily. “I thought…. I don’t know what I thought.”

“You thought I’d take the gem and leave?” Raistlin asks. It’s hard to read his tone.

Dalamar nods. More than that, he thought that Raistlin would sacrifice him on purpose. He doesn’t quite know how to express that.

“I did, too,” Raistlin admits, quietly. “Is that all you thought?”

Dalamar closes his eyes. “I thought,” he says, with some difficulty, “that you meant to let me die.” His voice catches. “Like a sacrifice,” he whispers, “in a ritual.”

Raistlin stills again, growing thoughtful. He can’t honestly say that he  _ wouldn’t _ do something like that in general, nor can he say that he wouldn’t do that to  _ Dalamar _ , specifically, without revealing too much of how important Dalamar is to him. “The spell I used,” Raistlin settles with saying, “Is the only one I could think of to avoid further harming you  _ and  _ the gem. I didn’t realize you’d already lost so much blood and thought you would at least be alright until the cat lost consciousness.”

Dalamar nods, sighing. He pulls one of his hands up to his heart, feeling the scar there. Joy laced with hope lances through his veins, hot and painful and terrifying. It’s exhausting. He’s exhausted.

Raistlin remembers the offer Dalamar made when they were first entering the cave, as well as the way Dalamar pushed him out of the way when the cat first attacked. He frowns. “You thought I would sacrifice you, and you were okay with that?”

Dalamar nods again. 

Raistlin lets out a sharp breath. “That’s foolish,” he snaps, before he can help it, then adds, more gently, “You’re worth more than that.”

Dalamar’s eyes snap open, though his vision is starting to blur at the corners. “Not more than the magic,” he breathes. “Not more than you.” 

“Hm,” Raistlin says, “Maybe not in  _ your _ mind.”

Dalamar closes his eyes again, breathing heavily. He’s still holding onto one of Raistlin’s hands, and he presses it to his cheek, leaning into Raistlin’s palm. Raistlin strokes a thumb along Dalamar’s cheek. Dalamar kisses his palm. 

Raistlin shifts and leans down enough until he can kiss Dalamar, first just barely missing his mouth in the darkness, then trying a second time and succeeding, kissing him lightly, briefly. Dalamar huffs a laugh and relaxes, his breathing slowing to a steady pace as he falls back into sleep. 

When Raistlin realizes what happened, he sits up and feels around for his staff. “ _ Shirak _ ,” he says, into the darkness, and settles in to read until Dalamar wakes again.

It’s not pretty. An hour or so later, Dalamar wakes with a scream. Raistlin is still at his side, has been alertly watching Dalamar ever since he started tossing and turning in his sleep.

“Dalamar,” he says, taking Dalamar’s hand and squeezing it, “I'm still here.”

Dalamar grips his hand hard, hard enough to bruise. His eyes are screwed tight shut. He doesn’t seem to hear Raistlin. “No,” he sobs, over and over. 

“ _ Dalamar _ ,” Raistlin says, a little more sternly. He knows Dalamar has nightmares; it's impossible to spend so many nights with someone and  _ not _ realize something like that. This is different. Worry coils in Raistlin's stomach.

Dalamar rakes his nails down his face, his sobbing turning into Sylvanesti mumbling. The words  _ wayreth _ and  _ valthonis _ are discernible, but the rest slurs together in his thick accent. 

Raistlin grabs Dalamar's wrists and pulls them away from his face so he can't hurt himself, beginning to feel real fear now. He switches Dalamar's wrists to one hand and fishes in his bag with the other for quick spell components-- rose petals, sand.

Raistlin casts a sleeping spell on Dalamar, one he's known since he was a teenager, and all of the fight drains out of Dalamar, his arms going limp. Raistlin breathes a sigh of relief and keeps a close eye on Dalamar, who now sleeps peacefully once more.

As Raistlin sits back and watches him, he thinks about another time he cast that spell on someone else dear to him who was lost to the thrall of feverish dreams. He wonders what Caramon would think of him now, if he saw him like this, if he knew his twin brother had somehow fallen in  _ love _ , despite his best attempts to fight it. He snorts, and he pushes the thought aside, and he watches Dalamar until his own eyelids feel heavy. Then, he curls up beside Dalamar and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't leave yall hangin after so many months of no updates! 
> 
> notes:  
> 1\. can't let this stupid elf boy get off without SOME sort of chest scar. i'm going to write a modern au and give him a chest tattoo or something. *smacks dalamar* this bad boy can hold so much chest pain  
> 2\. that's it actually that's my only note


	12. TRAVEL

It feels like early, early morning when Dalamar next wakes. Still in the cave, still wrapped in his bedroll, with sand and rose petals in his hair and Raistlin’s soft, shallow breathing next to him. He feels more lucid, now, but his limbs are still made of lead, weighing him down. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes open. 

He studies the tiles on the wall for a while, thinking of nothing in particular. He knows he has emotions to process, realizations to consider, but he’s sore and warm and feels cared for and so he lets himself relax, his worries slipping from his drowsy mind.

He thinks that he should probably write up a summary of how the gem felt when it was used on him, before he forgets. He thinks of Raistlin’s breathing. He thinks of the journey back to Palanthas and feels a sort of dread settle over him, then pushes that away, all of it, hiding it in a box in his soul and throwing away the key. 

He falls asleep again. 

Raistlin wakes up a while after him, then drifts in and out of sleep for a few hours, more comfortable than he should be in this place. When he's well and truly awake, he starts making plans. They can't stay here, in this cave. Already they're running low on provisions, and this isn't a good place for Dalamar to recover, but he's also in no state to do much moving.

Raistlin stretches and tries to get a feel for how well  _ he’s  _ recovered. Almost well enough for a small transportation spell, he thinks, to Daltigoth proper or maybe even Pontigoth, if he's taking both of them. But still, then there's the issue of Dalamar being seen…

Deciding to wait for Dalamar to reason this through, Raistlin curls back up alongside Dalamar, this time taking one of his hands and weaving their fingers together, and falls back asleep.

The next time Dalamar wakes, it’s to the warmth of Raistlin’s body close to his, their hands pressed together, their breathing almost in sync. He still hurts all over, but his head feels far clearer, clearer even than it did in the early morning. He stretches a bit and yawns. 

Raistlin shifts a bit and holds Dalamar's hands closer to him. A few seconds later, his eyes slowly flutter open and fix on Dalamar. “You're awake,” he says, sleepily.

“For now,” Dalamar replies, wryly. 

Raistlin shrugs, then stretches, letting go of Dalamar's hand in the process. “Like I said, healing may take a while.”

Dalamar sighs and pushes himself up on shaky arms until he’s in a sitting position. He gathers his knees to his chest and leans his head on them, breathing heavily. His robes are torn and bloody and covered with dirt and muck from the floor of the cave. “Are we staying here longer?"

Raistlin sits up as well, a hand on Dalamar's back in case he needs support. “I was going to ask  _ you _ that. I wasn't sure if you were ready to move.”

Dalamar closes his eyes and takes stock of how he feels. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I could walk, I think, but not very far.” He groans. “I don’t want to stay here, though.” 

Raistlin runs his hand up and down Dalamar's back absently, thinking. “The tiles we found,” he says, “What did you say they do?”

“They’re a power source,” Dalamar says sleepily. “To draw on instead of your own, or along with it.”

Raistlin nods. That's what he'd thought. “Did you hear anything about how it's used?”

“It’s just like any other artifact,” Dalamar replies. “Focus your will through it, speak the word for  _ open _ , and it’s yours.”

Raistlin's already got the larger of the two tiles in his hand. He turns it over, studying it's jagged edges, feeling its warm energy. He looks up at Dalamar. “Can you stand?”

Dalamar pulls himself to his feet, swaying for a second or two before he pitches forwards with a look of alarm. Raistlin catches him, also almost stumbling under Dalamar's weight. He shoves the Staff of Magius into Dalamar's hands, but doesn't let go of Dalamar in case he falls again.

“Sorry,” Dalamar mutters awkwardly.

“Don't apologize,” Raistlin says, slowly letting go to see if Dalamar can support himself with the staff alone.

Dalamar hangs onto it heavily, but manages to stay upright. Once he’s sure Dalamar will be alright, Raistlin goes to pack his and Dalamar’s things, hoisting both of their bags onto his shoulders and returning to Dalamar. He winds an arm around Dalamar’s waist, pulling Dalamar closer to him, and says, “Hold on to me. We both may be a little exhausted after this.”

Dalamar frowns, but unwinds one of his arms from the staff and wraps it around Raistlin. 

With the hand not holding Dalamar, Raistlin still clings to the heartroom tile. Now, he brings it to his lips and whispers a command, and it begins to glow faintly. Raistlin begins to chant another spell, one more complicated than any he’s performed this trip, barring the life draining spell. One moment, they’re standing in the dark cave, no sounds around them except for Raistlin’s chanting and the faint dripping of water nearby, and the next, they’re standing in a puddle of water. And it’s  _ obscenely  _ bright, despite the overcast sky ahead.

They stand in some kind of alley, and just down the way, people can be seen passing by on a busy street. Raistlin’s chanting drops off and he sags against the wall they appeared next to, pulling Dalamar with him. Dalamar stumbles, leaning against him. He shuts his eyes against the brilliant light and listens to the sounds of pedestrians. The tang of salt is in the air and he can hear the sounds of sea birds.

Raistlin’s out of breath and a little tired, and he also has to shut his eyes to block out the light, after days of sitting in near-total darkness, but he doesn’t feel nearly as bad as he should have. He remembers the first time he tried to teleport, remembers arriving at the Library of Palanthas nearly dead. There’s something to be said for how much he’s improved since then, but there’s something else to be said for the relatively short distance and the tile he still holds in his hand. He squints at it. “It’s used up,” he says, voice ragged. “I can’t feel any magic in it anymore.”

Dalamar motions to the packs. “No matter. I stuck several of them in there on the way in.”

Raistlin looks at Dalamar, surprised, then kisses him. Dalamar laughs into his mouth, kissing back. Raistlin works a hand into Dalamar’s hair, dropping the tile to do so, and hums, something suspiciously like happiness bubbling up in his chest. Dalamar, of course, chooses this moment to groan and go pale, dropping his head to Raistlin’s shoulder.

“I have you,” Raistlin murmurs, wrapping an arm back around Dalamar, “Let’s go get a room.”

Dalamar nods, breathing heavily. He leans against Raistlin, trying and mostly failing to support his own weight.

Raistlin leads them, slowly, around the side of the building and inside, into the same inn they stayed at last time. He deposits Dalamar into an open chair near the door and disappears to speak to the innkeep. Dalamar tries to catch his breath, a hand clasped to his side where he still feels phantom pain.

It’s a few minutes later that Raistlin returns with the room key, looking vaguely annoyed. The expression fades away when he sees Dalamar, replaced by one of worry. “Come, now,” he says gently, helping Dalamar to his feet again, “I got a room on the first floor, so you won’t have to worry about too many stairs.”

Dalamar nods and frowns, letting Raistlin help him walk. He draws his hood up as they pass through the inn’s common room. Raistlin doesn’t comment on the action. He understands. They slowly make their way up the single flight of stairs and into the room, which has only one bed this time, though it’s bigger than the ones at some of the early places they stayed atl.

Raistlin leads Dalamar all the way to the bed, then drops their bags down onto it. Dalamar collapses into the mattress, curling up into himself and breathing heavily. Raistlin drops down beside him, the teleportation spell finally catching up with him. Dalamar curls a hand into Raistlin’s robes, pulling him close and burying his face in Raistlin’s chest. Raistlin lets himself relax into Dalamar with a sigh, putting an arm around him and holding him close. 

They sleep.

Dalamar wakes to a groaning stomach and the realization that he hasn’t actually eaten in days. Raistlin sleeps beside him, the heavy sleep that follows a difficult spell, and only stirs when Dalamar wakes. Loathe to disturb him but assuming Raistlin hasn’t eaten much in the way of real food either, Dalamar puts a hand on his shoulder.

Raistlin stirs a little, and eventually opens his eyes. He frowns at Dalamar, groggy and grumpy, and mumbles a questioning, “Hmm?”

Dalamar brushes some of Raistlin’s hair out of his face, then leans in and kisses him. He can’t help himself. Raistlin’s just so  _ cute _ like this. Smiling, he pulls back. “Shalafi,” he says, “I’m absolutely starving. When was the last time you ate?”

Raistlin feels himself blush, more at the look Dalamar is giving him than the kiss. He thinks about it and shrugs. Dalamar ducks to kiss him again.

“Come downstairs with me,” he says, his voice smooth and inviting even as he thinks about how much of a pain it would be to get down there by himself.

Raistlin sighs and stretches. “If you insist,” he says, still not entirely awake, but certainly  _ more _ so after Dalamar speaking to him like that.

“I do insist,” Dalamar smiles, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His head swims, but he feels more solid, more present.

“You seem better,” Raistlin observes, sitting up as well. He passes Dalamar a canteen. “Drink.”

Dalamar does. “I feel better,” he says. “A bit, at least.”

“Good,” Raistlin says. He hold a hand out to Dalamar. “Perhaps you’ll feel even better after you eat.”

“I hope so,” Dalamar replies, taking his hand. He swings himself out of bed and stands with Raistlin’s help, adjusting his torn robes and frowning at them when his skin still shows through. Raistlin smirks and doesn’t comment, tugging Dalamar to the door and then down the stairs.

Dalamar follows, stumbling only once on the stairs. He stops at the bottom to catch his breath, then sinks gratefully into the closest chair.

“I’ll get food,” Raistlin says, then vanishes.

Dalamar watches him go, then turns to look out at the room. The table he’s chosen is close to the stairs and the fire both, neither in a corner nor in the middle of the floor. It’s evening, and the inn is well-populated. The guests range between worn travelers and people who clearly have more money than your average citizen, which makes for an interesting mix.

Dalamar looks back to the bar and sees Raistlin conversing with someone: a half-elf in traveler’s clothes. His eyes widen. Raistlin isn’t one to just be  _ friendly _ to someone. He must know this person somehow. Suspicious, Dalamar waits, his eyes never leaving the two at the bar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI WE'RE BACK!! not dead, still updating this fic, don't worry, we will have our conclusion. who could possibly be at the bar...........
> 
> as always find us on twitter @nedpines (i switched accounts!) and @anaphiel_


	13. TANIS

Raistlin waits impatiently at the bar for their food, tapping his nails against the polished wood. A voice from behind him, hesitant, makes Raistlin freeze up.

“Raistlin?”

Raistlin turns, slowly, to see none other than Tanis Half-Elven standing behind him, looking just as surprised to see Raistlin as Raistlin feels to see him. He still has his beard, Raistlin notices with mild distaste, but he looks different. He doesn’t look  _ younger _ , Raistlin thinks. The shadows of decay marring his face are mostly unchanged; it’s only been a few years since the two of them last met, after all. He looks  _ happier, _ somehow.

“I could hardly believe it was you, when you came downstairs,” Tanis says, venturing a little closer to Raistlin. He nods at the staff in Raistlin's hands. “But I'd recognize that staff anywhere. You look...well. Healthy.”

At the word  _ well _ , Tanis glances disapprovingly at Raistlin’s robes. Raistlin smirks. “Do I? I suppose living on my own has been good for me.”

Tanis glances at Raistlin's table, where Dalamar sits. “Alone?” he asks, both of them knowing what Raistlin really means. Tanis frowns at him. “What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were holed up in your-- I mean, I heard you rarely leave Palanthas.”

Raistlin shrugs. “I could ask you the same question, half-elf. We are a long way from Qualinesti.”

“I had business in Palanthas,” Tanis says, reluctant to reveal any more than that. 

“And I had business in Daltigoth,” Raistlin says mildly. 

Tanis laughs a little awkwardly and tugs at his beard. “I’m sure I don’t want hear about it, anyway. Does Caramon know?” Tanis asks.

Raistlin makes a face. “Does Caramon know  _ what?” _

“That you're…” Tanis trails off, then waves a hand around at the inn. “Out and about.”

“No,” Raistlin says. “He does  _ not _ , and I believe it's in his best interest if you don't tell him.”

Beneath his beard, Tanis frowns. Raistlin remembers the look well; it’s the concerned frown that means Tanis’s thoughts are far away. In this case, probably back in Solace. Raistlin’s surprised to feel a twinge of fondness, fondness for the look,  _ Tanis _ , mentions of Caramon, thoughts of Solace. It won’t do.

The bartender places two plates of food in front of Raistlin, and Raistlin snatches them up like he can’t flee quickly enough. “If you'll excuse me,” he begins coldly, turning to leave, “I should be getting back to my apprentice.”

“That’s your apprentice? Hang  _ on _ ,” Tanis says, following Raistlin when he begins to leave, “You can't walk away so soon, my friend! We should talk more--,” 

Raistlin stops and looks back at Tanis. It’s a cold, skeptical look, one that stops Tanis cold. He represses a shiver, and cringes when Raistlin asks, quietly, “Are we still friends, Tanis?”

Tanis hesitates before answering, and Raistlin sneers. “Of course,” Tanis says, “No matter what you've done.”

“If only that were so,” Raistlin says. “But perhaps you just wish to gossip more.”

“No,” Tanis says a little more firmly, “I just want to hear how you’re doing. We’ve all been worried about you.”

“Of course you have,” Raistlin says with a sigh, continuing to the table, not caring if Tanis follows.

Dalamar blinks as the half-elf follows Raistlin back to the table. His stomach twists, and he sits up straighter, doing as much as he can to hide his pain and exhaustion. He doesn’t know this man, and he doesn’t want him to see anything in Dalamar that he can use, for good or for ill. “Welcome back,” he says to Raistlin, raising a smooth eyebrow at his companion. “You’ve brought a friend?” 

Raistlin gives him an exasperated look. “Tanis Half-Elven, meet my apprentice, Dalamar Nightson. Dalamar, Tanis,” Raistlin says, without any added formalities. He sets one of the plates in front of Dalamar and drops into the seat beside him.

Dalamar blinks. He’s hear of Tanis- of  _ course  _ he’s heard of Tanis Half-Elven. “My pleasure,” he says, his eyebrow still raised. 

“Likewise,” Tanis says, giving Dalamar a curious look. It has more to do with the fact that this is someone  _ Raistlin Majere _ decided to take on as an apprentice and less to do with who Dalamar is, though his eyes drop to Dalamar’s robes and linger there.

Dalamar can’t help himself from putting his hand over the most obvious rip, trying in vain to patch the holes. He realizes belatedly that it might be the color Tanis is looking at, and his mouth tightens slightly. 

Tanis glances back at the table he’d been sitting at, obviously wanting to return. Raistlin smirks at him, though, knowing Tanis will decide to join them before he even does. He’s too curious. Tanis sits, and asks Dalamar, “You’re Raistlin’s apprentice?”

“Yes,” Dalamar replies, terse.

Raistlin gives Dalamar a curious look.

“Ah,” Tanis says, awkwardly. Then, “Was that...a choice  _ you _ made, or…?”

Raistlin grins. 

“Yes, entirely,” Dalamar says, raising an eyebrow. 

Tanis looks, if possible, more confused. “Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Tanis doesn't believe someone would willingly subject themselves to dealing with  _ me _ everyday, isn't that right, Tanis?” Raistlin asks, his voice almost a purr. He's enjoying this immensely. “Someone who's not my brother, that is. Or a friend of my brother.”

“I didn't say that,” Tanis scolds.

“No, but you forget that I know you, half-elf,” Raistlin says. “I can see right through you.”

Dalamar frowns. “Shalafi,” he says, “is no trouble to me to  _ deal with _ .” He’s vaguely offended, but isn’t sure why. “Is that so strange?”

Tanis’s eyebrows shoot up at the title. “No,” he says, voice saying the exact opposite, “Of course not. How long have you been his...ah…”

“Apprentice?” Dalamar supplies with a smirk. “Less than a year.”

Tanis nods and looks between the two of them curiously. “How did that….happen?”

Dalamar looks at Raistlin. “He told the conclave he would take an apprentice, and I wanted the position and fit all of his qualifications. A relatively standard procedure.”

Tanis frowns. “You didn't have an apprenticeship, though, did you? I don't remember you or Caramon ever mentioning it.”

“No. Even then, the Conclave was too wary of me,” Raistlin says with a shrug. “No one was interested.”

Dalamar snorts. His hand brushes Raistlin’s beneath the table. Raistlin smirks, and Tanis looks at the two of them, feeling like he missed something. 

“Oh,” Tanis says guiltily, “I forgot to mention--,”

Just then, a loud, bright voice can be heard calling for Tanis from across the inn.

Raistlin's eyes widen and he grabs Dalamar's arm, grip tight enough to bruise. “We have to go upstairs immediately,” he says. 

“What?” Dalamar asks, looking desperately at his half-eaten food. 

“Raistlin! Raistlin, is that you?” comes the bright voice. They can see, now, it belongs to a kender with a large topknot, who is weaving his way between the tables to them.

“Too late,” Raistlin groans.

“Sorry. I should've warned you sooner,” Tanis says, looking more relieved than apologetic.

“What?” Dalamar repeats, looking at the kender. “Another?”

Raistlin groans and buries his face in his hands, and that's when the kender joins them. “Raistlin, it  _ is  _ you! Tanis, I can't believe Raistlin is here and you didn't even tell me!”

“I would have, if I'd known where you'd run off to,” Tanis says, leaning back in his seat, looking much more comfortable now that he doesn't have to deal with the two wizards alone.

Tasslehoff notices Dalamar, then, and sticks a hand out. “Hello! Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Are you a friend of Raist’s?”

Dalamar takes it, his eyebrows sky high. “Dalamar Nightson,” he says, faintly. “I’m his apprentice.” 

“Oh!” Tasslehoff says, eyes widening. “You must see all kinds of cool magic.”

“More than you can imagine,” Dalamar says, grinning wickedly. 

Tanis studies Dalamar's expression. He thinks he's beginning to see why Dalamar is willing to put up with Raistlin, and why Raistlin is able to put up with  _ him _ .

“I dunno,” Tasslehoff says thoughtfully. “I can imagine a  _ lot. _ Raistlin, are you okay?”

Raistlin's hands still cover his face. He doesn't respond.

“Shalafi?” Dalamar asks, concerned, turning to him. 

Raistlin shakes his head and drops his arms, his hand brushing Dalamar’s  _ above  _ the table this time. Tasslehoff doesn't notice, but Tanis does, his eyes widening.

“So are you a dark elf?” Tasslehoff asks. “I don't think I've ever really spoken to a dark elf before. Well, there was that one in Pax Tharkas. Do you remember that, Tanis? Raistlin?”

Dalamar pales. “Yes, I am.” He’s not sure how else to answer. 

“What happened? Is it because you’re a black robe? How long have you been a dark elf?”

“Shut  _ up _ , you idiot kender,” Raistlin snaps, his hand finding Dalamar’s knee under the table. “That's  _ enough. _ ”

“Sorry, Raist,” Tasslehoff says, eyes wide. He's looking between Dalamar and Raistlin, now, as is Tanis.

Dalamar takes a deep breath and smiles at Tasslehoff. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says, answering as if the kender had apologized to him. “If you must know, I was exiled three years ago. But I’m not going to tell you any more, so don’t ask.” 

“That's okay! I have lots of other questions I can ask instead,” Tasslehoff says, dropping into the chair across from Dalamar. 

Raistlin groans.

Dalamar looks at the kender incredulously. 

“How'd your robes get all ripped up?” Tasslehoff asks, pointing.

“I was mauled by a cat,” Dalamar says, tugging the holes closed again. 

Tasslehoff’s eyes widen. “It must've been a big cat.”

“It was a housecat,” Dalamar replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Was it?” Tasslehoff asks doubtfully.

“Of course it wasn't,” Raistlin scoffs, making Tanis laugh.

Dalamar raises an eyebrow. “No, it was a huge cat. A hellbeast,” he says, leaning towards Tasslehoff, “summoned by an ancient wizard to do his nefarious bidding.” He grins. 

“I can't believe I missed that! It's not still around, is it? Tanis, can we go find the giant cat?”

“I'm sure Dalamar and Raistlin already took care of it,” Tanis says, still smiling. “Besides, I'm eager to get home.”

Tasslehoff rolls his eyes a little, no doubt having heard enough about Tanis lamenting about getting home on their trip so far. Raistlin notices the expression and hides a smile.

Dalamar glances at Raistlin, wondering who these people are that they can make him smile like that. “We did take care of it,” he says to Tanis. “Apologies, my friend.”

Tasslehoff beams at him. “Oh, that's alright. Raistlin, I like your friend a lot.”

“So do I,” Raistlin says, before he can himself.

Dalamar looks very, very pleased with himself. Tanis’s eyes go wide. He  _ hasn't  _ been misinterpreting their dynamic, then, which is...slightly disturbing. Maybe he's wrong.

“Look at you,” he says to Raistlin, “ _ Admitting _ you like someone. I remember when you wouldn't admit to liking your own  _ brother _ .”

“Maybe I  _ don’t _ like my own brother,” Raistlin sniffs.

“Hmm,” Tanis says.

Dalamar watches the exchange with eyebrows raised. Raistlin clearly likes Tanis well enough. 

“Speaking of your brother,” Tanis begins, but Raistlin cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I don't want to hear it,” Raistlin says.

“He misses you,” Tanis finishes anyway. “Raistlin, how could you do that to him? How could you just leave him like that, after all he's done for you?”

Raistlin scowls at Tanis, but doesn't say anything.

Dalamar looks between them, eyes wide. He’s angry, suddenly, that this man would come into his life and question  _ his _ Raistlin on something Dalamar doesn’t even dare ask him about, but the anger turns into something cold and sickly and settles in the pit of his stomach. Tanis, whoever he is to Raistlin, clearly has more claim over Raistlin than Dalamar does. 

Tasslehoff’s expression matches Dalamar’s; he watches his two friends with wide eyes, for once content not to interrupt.

“It's for his own good, Tanis,” Raistlin says, oblivious to Dalamar's whirl of emotions.

“That's not for you to decide,” Tanis says, sternly. Raistlin sits back in his seat and studies Tanis thoughtfully.

“And what would you recommend I do?” Raistlin asks with a bit of a sneer, though it's clear he's genuinely curious to hear the answer. “Run home to Solace and apologize, beg his forgiveness?”

“For pity's sake, Raistlin, you could at least  _ write him _ once in a while,” Tanis says. “At least let him know you don't  _ hate  _ him.”

Raistlin drums his fingers on the table, his mostly untouched plate of food still in front of him. Tasslehoff snatches some of the potato wedges off his plate while no one's looking and shoves them in his mouth, still looking at Tanis with wide eyes. It was one thing to talk to Raistlin like this  _ before _ , but  _ this _ is dangerous. Even Tas knows that.

“Just think about it,” Tanis says.

Raistlin stares at Tanis a minute longer, then says, “I will.”

“Well,” says Dalamar, looking between the three of them. “This has been lovely, but I’m exhausted. I’m afraid I will have to take my leave. No, don’t stand up, it was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, gesturing at Tanis and Raistlin in a placating way, “and I wish you luck on your travels.” 

Pulling himself up, he whisks himself to the stairs, only to fall in a heap halfway up them. He stays there and curses his current illness. 

Raistlin watches Dalamar go, obviously worried.

“He seems nice,” Tasslehoff says, mostly just to break up the sudden tension.

“I should go too,” Raistlin says.

“You probably should,” Tanis agrees. Then, feeling like he can be a little more bold without Dalamar present, he asks, “Are you two…?”

Raistlin looks at him, and it's answer enough. Tasslehoff's eyes go wider than either Raistlin or Tanis knew was possible.

“ _ Really _ ?” he asks. “Raistlin, that's so sweet! Are you in l--,”

_ “Tasslehoff,”  _ Raistlin warns, rubbing his temples.

Tanis laughs. “Well,  _ I _ like him, from what I saw. Dark elf or not.”

Raistlin nods, more pleased by the approval than he ever thought he would be. “How long will you two be in Gander?” he asks.

“We leave tomorrow.”

“Well, then,” Raistlin says, standing. “I believe this is goodbye.”

“For now,” Tasslehoff says cheerfully, with a wave.

“For now,” Raistlin agrees, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Think about what I told you,” Tanis calls by way of goodbye, but Raistlin's already heading off in search of his apprentice, and it's not clear whether he heard.

Raistlin heads up to their room, pausing when he finds Dalamar on the stairs. He approaches carefully.

Dalamar looks up at him ruefully. “I tried,” he says. 

“You should have waited for me,” Raistlin says, without much force. He holds a hand out to Dalamar.

“Hm,” Dalamar replies, taking it and pulling himself up. He leans heavily on Raistlin and closes his eyes. 

Raistlin wraps an arm around Dalamar's waist and guides him up the rest of the stairs.

\---

Tanis stares after Raistlin in horror, the full weight of what just happened finally hitting him. He just had a civil conversation with Raistlin Majere.  _ Raistlin Majere _ , who he hasn't seen since the war ended. Raistlin has an apprentice. An apprentice who  _ willingly _ subjects himself to Raistlin. Raistlin is, in some way or another,  _ romantically involved  _ with said apprentice.

Tanis shudders at the thought of “Raistlin” and “romantically” being used in the same sentence.

“Good for him,” Tasslehoff is saying, oblivious to Tanis’s horror. “I don't think I've ever seen him so happy. Not since before the test, at least. Did you notice how happy he was, Tanis? He didn't even get mad when you brought up Caramon! I thought for sure that was a bad idea, that he'd threaten to summon some demon worm to devour you or something, but he said he'd  _ consider it _ ! Can you imagine if he talks to Caramon? We could get the whole group back together, for reunions and such. Dalamar should come, too. I’m sure he has some exciting stories.”

“Yeah,” Tanis says absently, not really paying attention. He can’t wait to tell Laurana about this, sure she won't believe it. Or maybe she will.

“I liked Dalamar,” Tasslehoff continues. “He's very polite, for a dark elf, but maybe  _ all  _ dark elves are nice. It just goes to show you that you shouldn't jump to conclusions.”

Tanis listens to Tasslehoff ramble on about Raistlin and black robes and apprentices for a while longer, lost in thought the whole time. All this thinking yields one major conclusion: he's happy for Raistlin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter for you today


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